The two of them disappeared around a corner. Conan caught the buzz of murmurs, but could make no sense of them. Bolts clicked as they shot back, and a door creaked, then the bolts returned to their sockets. The bailiff, his smile now more cruel than clever, returned to his desk. He picked up a triangular stylus and held it poised above a soft clay tablet, but did not begin to make impressions until Ela’s first muffled scream filled the hall.
Conan looked up. “Where is your master?”
The bailiff regarded him curiously. “So, the hill ape can speak. As you might surmise, our master is currently . . . otherwise engaged.”
The thief cried out again, clearly in pain.
The bailiff made impressions with the stylus, then pointed it at Conan. “Don’t worry. You’ll get your chance with him very soon.”
“I would rather it be now.”
Conan smashed his manacles together and the left one popped open. Coming to his feet, the Cimmerian shouldered one guard into the wall and dropped the other with a fist to the face. As the first guard rebounded, Conan kicked him in the chest. That slammed him against the wall again. He bounced harder, then collapsed on top of his companion.
The bailiff, horror on his face, had risen and turned to run. Conan pounced, looping the chain around the man’s neck, and yanked the bailiff back against his chest. “You will take me to Lucius now.”
“You’ll never get in. The door is locked from within.” The bailiff clutched at the chain. “They will only open the door for me.”
IN RESPONSE TO the insistent pounding on the chamber’s stout door, a guard slid back the peephole cover. The bailiff stared at him. Cursing, the guard closed the peephole then slid the bolts back. “He does not want to be disturbed.”
Conan delivered a heavy kick to the door, driving it into the guard’s face. He reeled back, stumbling into a table and upsetting it. Dice flew along with the coins being wagered on the outcome of throws. Before the other three guards could rise, the Cimmerian had entered the room and flung the bailiff’s severed head. It caught one guard full in the face, spilling him backward. A quick slash cut one man down, a thrust opened another’s throat, and Conan gutted a third. He left the blade in that man’s belly, then caught the door guard by the ears. With a quick twist, the Cimmerian snapped his neck.
Before the body hit the floor, Conan burst from the antechamber and into Lucius’s den. The fat man, who had been bent over a table, tightening screws on a device that had trapped Ela’s wrists, looked up. This close and in good light, there was no mistaking his identity. He was the man from Cimmeria.
Lucius spun away from Ela and reached for his sword, which hung on the wall. Conan reached it first, drawing it in a heartbeat. He drove the pommel into Lucius’s forehead, just hard enough to daze him and open a small wound, then shoved the man back into a chair.
Conan pressed the blade to Lucius’s throat with one hand while releasing Ela with the other. “Do you remember me, fat man?”
Lucius narrowed piggish eyes. “Should I?”
Conan nodded, then tore away the man’s mask, exposing the gaping holes in the middle of his face. “I did this to you.”
Blood drained from the Aquilonian’s face. “Impossible.”
Conan dragged the table with the clamps on it over in front of Lucius. “Fix his hands.”
The thief left off rubbing his own wrists and wrestled Lucius’s into the torture device. Conan would have bet the little man would have failed, but grim determination contorted his face. He locked the shackle bar over the Aquilonian’s wrists, then gave the screw enough twists to elicit a hiss from mine’s master.
“Please, Cimmerian, we can be civilized about this.” Lucius forced a smile. “I have gold. I can make you rich.”
Conan snorted. “I want the man who destroyed my village. I want Klarzin.”
“Klarzin?” Lucius blinked. “You want Khalar Zym?”
The Cimmerian’s icy eyes narrowed. Khalar Zym. Weariness and delirium had contracted the name into Klarzin. Hearing it again brought back memories, sharpening recollections that years and dreams had done much to dull. The cruel face, the hawk nose, the curved blade, and the memory of the blood that Conan had drawn; all of these things came back to him.
“Yes. Khalar Zym.” Conan nodded grimly. The name felt like a curse on his tongue, meant to be spat with contempt.
“This is perfect.” Lucius smiled and half turned, spitting at a banner on the wall. “There, you see his crest. The tentacled Mask of Acheron. I spit on it.”
Ela gave the screw another half turn.
“Stop, stop, I tell you the truth. We are allies, barbarian.” Lucius, tears brimming in deep-set eyes, opened his hands innocently. “He was once my master, but no more. I know how you can get him. I know where he is.”
Conan nodded. “Speak.”
“You have me at a disadvantage.” Lucius nodded toward his wrists. “Please.”
The Cimmerian nodded at Ela, who loosened the screw.
Lucius smiled carefully. “I will tell you everything I know, Cimmerian. You will find it all useful, but on your word of honor, promise you will not kill me.”
Conan nodded. “Speak. I won’t kill you.”
“You won’t regret this, my friend.” The noseless man licked his lips. “Khalar Zym . . . he traveled the world and promised us great power. In your village, we found the last piece of the Mask of Acheron. It had been shattered and divided millennia ago. We thought, with it complete, he would become a god. He told us so.”
The Cimmerian turned away and found a pair of pliers, which he placed on a small brazier. “You make much noise, but I hear nothing of value.
Lucius looked from Conan to the pliers and back. “Wait. Wait. He said there was another component. Something he needed to activate the mask. To bring it to its full power. I could not wait, so I left his service. But I know he lairs at Khor Kalba. And your friend here, he knows the way through Khor Kalba. With him I was going to steal the mask.”
Conan arched an eyebrow.
Ela smiled sheepishly. “What he says is true—half true. I know of Khor Kalba. I have studied it. I intended to enter, but then Khalar Zym took possession.” He tightened the screw another turn. “But I was no partner to this one.”
Lucius smiled weakly. “We would have reached an agreement, Ela Shan. You needed to take me seriously.”
“Is Khalar Zym at Khor Kalba now?”
“No, Cimmerian, no. But I do know where he is. I do.”
Conan turned back to the pliers, which had begun to glow a merry red. “Where?”
“The Wastes, the Red Wastes.”
“You lie. There is nothing there.”
“What is there is hidden, Cimmerian; and what he seeks is hidden well.” Lucius smiled. “And he shall return to Khor Kalba through the Shaipur Pass.”
Ela nodded. “That is a welcome place for an ambush.”
But does Lucius seek to have me ambushed or his former master? Conan picked up the glowing pliers. “What does Khalar Zym want in the Wastes?”
“Foolishness. He and that witch spawn of his seek a girl.”
Conan laughed. “The world is full of girls.”
“A special one, of special blood.” Lucius’s eyes focused past the pliers. “Her blood will activate the mask and make the wearer a god.”
The Cimmerian shivered involuntarily. He had no use for sorcery, and no inclination to tolerate those who lusted after such power.
He shook his head, leaning in closely, letting the pliers singe a lock of Lucius’s hair. “I think you lie to me, Aquilonian dog. You seek to send me into the Wastes on a fool’s mission.”
“I agree.” Ela gave the screw a full turn.
“No, no! I speak the truth!” Tears streamed down the fat man’s face. “By all the gods, you must believe me. I hate him as much as you do. I have no loyalty to him.”
Your loyalty is only to yourself. Conan stared at the man, lost in distant recollections of
their first meeting.
“Please, Cimmerian. I have upheld my end of the bargain. You promised.”
Conan nodded. “I did. Ela, the ring of keys on the wall. Find the one that would free the slaves.”
Lucius’s eyes grew wide. “You cannot. They would riot.”
“Calm yourself, Aquilonian.” Conan poured ale from a pitcher into a cup. “I will not kill you. I will not free the slaves.”
“Here.” Ela handed him a small key.
The Cimmerian stared down at where it rested across the scar on his palm, then forced Lucius’s head back. The Aquilonian’s mouth opened in surprise. Conan dropped the key into it, then poured the ale down the fat man’s throat.
Lucius swallowed, then sputtered, ale glistening on his chin and chest. “By Mitra, why?”
“It’s you who invoked the gods, Lucius.” Conan flipped the catch, freeing him from the clamps, then hauled him to his feet. “Come.”
“Wait, what are you doing?”
Conan’s grasp remained firm on the back of Lucius’s tunic. He marched the man out into the sunlight. Conan caught sight of only a half-dozen guards, and all he saw was the back of them as they scurried away. Lips twisted in contempt, he tossed Lucius sprawling to the ground as slaves slowly crept closer.
The barbarian pointed at the blubbering fat man. “The key that unlocks your chains sits in this man’s gullet.”
Lucius, who had scrambled to his knees, stared at Conan. “Cimmerian, you gave your word. You promised you would spare my life.”
“I promised I would not kill you.” Conan turned and walked away, relishing how the crunch of gravel beneath his feet devoured Lucius’s dying screams.
“Northerner . . .” Ela ran to catch up with Conan. “You have earned my gratitude.”
“Have I?”
“And Ela Shan is known to be a man who keeps his promises, honors his debts.”
“Rare qualities among thieves.”
The little man ran in front of Conan and walked backward as quickly as he could. “If you should be so foolish as to pursue this Khalar Zym to Khor Kalba, seek me out in Asgalun. I shall talk you out of it.”
Conan nodded slowly. “And you, Ela Shan, if you hear that the master of Khor Kalba has died in the Wastes, know you have Conan of Cimmeria to thank for clearing your way.”
The little thief smiled. “Then may Bel smile on you, Conan of Cimmeria, and may your sword speed Khalar Zym to hell.”
CHAPTER 15
TAMARA AMALIAT JORVI KARUSHAN stood atop the monastery’s eastern battlement, letting the dawning sun’s rays bathe her with their warmth. It had been her habit to do this often in her twenty years. The ritual’s regularity instilled a sense of order. The sun’s presence reminded her that forces more titanic than she ruled the world. And yet, at the same time, she felt she was a critical part of it, made whole by it as she, in turn, helped make it whole.
As the sun cleared the horizon, she bowed to it, then began her morning exercises. Her years of training as a monk had made her an expert in a variety of combat arts. Primarily unarmed, but she was not unacquainted with a bow or a knife. While she recognized them as useful tools, and diligently studied until she had mastered their uses, she preferred unarmed forms. Knives and arrows, after all, could do serious harm even without the intention to do so. As the saying went, “a falling knife has no handle.” Arms and legs, however, feet and fists, could be used to help even more easily than they could be used to hurt.
So, in the early morning, Tamara’s slender body moved from one form to another. Her flowing robes easily accommodated her movements. Her long hair had been gathered back and tied with a band. It delicately brushed her shoulders as her exercises continued. As she did each morning, she battled a succession of shadow warriors, turning their attacks back on themselves, using their force and hatred to destroy them.
The simple flowing motion rooted her in the world. Life itself was energy. She recognized it, moved with it. Just as she would use another’s energy against them, so she used the world’s energy to help her. This was, after all, her role. By doing what she did, she established order in what would otherwise be a chaotic world, fostering peace where there would otherwise be an ocean of misery.
A young novitiate paused at the head of the stairs, then dropped to her knees. She bowed her head, not looking up, unmoving, while Tamara’s exercises continued. Tamara had noticed her immediately, more because she had disrupted her routine than because of any inherent interest the girl may have possessed. She hastened to complete her exercises—an action that left her slightly unsettled.
“Yes, sister, of what assistance may I be?”
The novitiate kept her eyes downcast. “Master Fassir, he has summoned you.”
“Where?”
“The Pool of Visions.”
A thrill ran through Tamara. Master Fassir opened the pool chamber on an irregular schedule. He and his advisers regularly consulted charts of the heavens, drawing lines between planets and stars. They measured the angles and performed complex calculations, which they then compared to horoscopes and prophecies. Most often Fassir walked the chamber’s precincts alone, but on rare occasions other monks would be summoned to hear a pronouncement of grave import.
“Thank you, sister.” Tamara bowed to her, then flew down the stairs and to the cell she shared with another monk. From a chest in the corner she drew a clean white robe. She fitted a square cap on her head, then draped a gauzy veil over her head and shoulders. Keeping her eyes modestly downcast and steps hobbled by humility, she made all allowable haste to the chamber.
Several other monks, all female and similarly attired, knelt at the long sides of a rectangular granite basin. Sunlight streamed into the room from an open eastern door, but the pool’s rippling water reflected none of the light on the opposite wall. At one short end sat Master Fassir, hooded in a white robe, drawing slowly on a pipe. He exhaled fragrant smoke slowly, so it drifted upward like a curtain that further hid his face.
Tamara knelt opposite him and stared down into the shallow pool. She could see nothing but golden tile work at the bottom. She had not expected to see anything, for the pool shared its wisdom with those far older and wiser than she—yet she dared hope that, someday, she would be in Fassir’s place.
She felt Fassir’s gaze upon her. She looked up into her mentor’s face. He had always been old in her sight, but aside from the deepening of lines around his eyes and the corners of his mouth, he had not changed much. True, time had leached his hair and beard of all color, but his eyes retained their kindness. He smiled as he was wont to do, then glanced down into the pool and exhaled more smoke.
“There comes a man, Tamara. I do not see him clearly—he is not yet close enough. There is a journey, sea and sand to be crossed.”
“His journey, Master, or mine?”
The old man smiled. “Yes and yes. Two journeys become one. This man . . .”
“Is he a knight?”
Fassir’s eyes tightened. “A warrior. A man of destiny. As with your journeys, so shall your destinies merge.”
Tamara frowned. My destiny is to be here. Am I to seek this man and bring him among us? “What destiny, Master?”
Fassir shook his head, his brow furrowing. “Not what, but which, Tamara. Often there is so little to be seen, but here there is so much, one does not know what to ignore.”
Tamara studied him. “Is that all, Master?”
Fassir set the pipe down and rubbed a hand over his forehead. “I fear it is. Things shift faster than expected.” He clapped his hands. “Off with you all, to your duties. All save you, Tamara.”
The other monks rose and noiselessly exited the dimly lit chamber. Fassir stood and wordlessly led Tamara out through the eastern door. They came out onto a veranda overlooking the monastery’s courtyard and gate beyond. The other monks moved about, carefree, attending to their duties.
“You will walk with me, Tamara.”
She took up her
position two steps behind him and one to the left, as befit her position and his, but he beckoned her forward. “You know well how people come to join us, don’t you, Tamara?”
“Of course, Master. Some are born here. Some we seek out as we travel in the world. Some, the most innocent, are able to wander through the wards which keep us hidden. We bring them here and teach them, keeping them safe.” She cocked her head slightly. “Is that it, Master? Do you wish me to seek out this man from your vision and bring him hence?”
The older man laughed. “No. Such a man as I saw would not take well to our life. As much as we seek order, he is chaos incarnate. Or, barring that, one who establishes a different kind of order. I doubt you could bring him here, and I am certain he could never find his way on his own.”
“I would do all I could, Master.”
“This I do not doubt, Tamara. But I did not begin this line of inquiry to elicit a pledge of fidelity to any task I might give you.”
“Then why?”
Fassir opened his arms to take in the whole of the monastery. “Why is it that you, of all the monks here, have never inquired about how you came to be here? We all do it. I was but twelve when I did. Others have discussed this with you, of this I am certain. But why have you never asked?”
Tamara frowned. “I have never felt the need to know, Master. I have always felt I was meant to be here. I supposed I must have come from elsewhere, but it did not matter to me. Should it have? Should I have asked?”
“That it is your sense that you belong here speaks great volumes on the propriety of the actions which brought you here.”
She looked at him curiously. “You make it sound as if I was stolen from my parents.”
Fassir stopped. “You know our purpose here, the purpose of our sister monastery in Hyrkania.”
“To maintain order in the world so it does not fall completely to chaos.”
“Which we do admirably. And you know that there are times when we send some of our number into the world beyond the wards to further this mission.” He sighed, clasping his hands at the small of his back. “I know some of the other monks suggest you are my favorite. It’s true, of course, because you are the most dedicated and intelligent of my students. But there is more and here is the razored edge I must walk. Were I to reveal all to you, I could trigger a disaster. And yet, to reveal nothing could guarantee disaster. So, I shall tell you as much as I think you need to know. I ask that you trust me, and trust even more in your training and your heart. Between the two, you will find the means and wherewithal to continue your mission.”
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