Better that we should have died.
When they finally captured Maliva, they lashed her to a massive oaken wheel—so large it might have served to transport the land ship. They secured her to the crossbeams, stretching her limbs until taut, then lit the wheel on fire. Flames sprang up with unnatural speed and supernatural ferocity. Their incendiary caresses darkening her mother’s white flesh.
Hair flowing in the heat, then igniting, her mother threw back her head. Marique, in chains, clutching at her father’s breast, had turned away, anticipating a scream. Instead, in a haunted voice, strong and free of pain, Maliva damned those who had pursued her.
“I curse you all. You can burn my flesh, but my soul you cannot touch. Husband, resurrect me! Bring me back and you shall be as a god!”
Marique’s father held her tighter and his tears wet her hair. Then the wheel collapsed in on itself. Sparks jetted high into the air until they mingled with the stars. Maliva’s murderers waited two days for the coals to cool and be raked before scattering the ashes, then set father and daughter free to wander the world as pathetic examples of the wages of infamy.
Khalar Zym’s mailed fist slammed against his breastplate. “All you did to destroy us was for naught, Fassir.”
“The monks here had no part in your wife’s punishment. They are innocent.”
“Her blood may not be on their hands, but there is other blood, isn’t there?” Khalar Zym again crouched. “Even as one set of enemies sought my wife, you and your fellow monks anticipated me. Was it a vision, or simple calculation, monk? For you acted even before my wife had died.”
“We did what was necessary.”
“We? You seek to shuffle blame onto your own master, a man long-since dead?” Khalar Zym rose again and addressed the monks. “Did he tell you what he did? That two decades ago he went into the world and stole a child?”
“A child your agents had taken, though you did not know what she truly was. I rescued her from your evil.”
“You did more than just that. In fact, I might have admired how you managed it. Incredible skill and stealth, qualities I admire.” Her father shook his head. “It was the other that dooms you, old man.”
“It was necessary.”
“Was it?” He opened his arms. “I seek a woman, pure of blood, descended from the last Acheronian priest-kings. I do not wish to slay her. I merely need some of her blood. A drop, a small vial, nothing she will notice gone, nothing from which she will not recover and be exalted for. For she who provides this would be as a daughter to me. And more.”
Marique shivered.
Khalar Zym thrust an accusing finger at Fassir. “To thwart me, this one went and stole a child from my people. He brought her here. But then . . . then he did the unforgivable—that for which there is no redemption. Once he had placed her here, he sought out her parents. He slew them, and her brothers and her sisters, and her grandparents and her cousins. How many were there, Fassir? How many died to lock my wife away in hell? A dozen? Two? Did you ever count? Can you even remember?”
Fassir drew himself up to his knees and Marique sensed in him a purpose. “Every single one, Khalar Zym, from babes suckled at their mothers’ breasts to a crone so old and in so much pain that she begged for release.”
Marique’s father folded his arms over his chest. “Where is the one I seek? Is she in the coach my men are chasing?”
Fassir said nothing.
“Of course she is.” Khalar Zym shook his head. “And you’re sending her to Hyrkania, aren’t you? Don’t lie. I see it in your eyes. You didn’t think I knew of the monastery there. I’ve not found it, yet, but the road between here and Hyrkania is long. I have many agents watching. You have failed, Fassir. Let that knowledge fill you with regret.”
The old man looked up. “My only regret, Khalar Zym, is that I was not there to watch your witch burn.”
Fury pouring from him in an inarticulate scream, Khalar Zym kicked the monk in the stomach. As Fassir bent forward around his middle, Khalar Zym grabbed the monk’s head. He smashed it again and again into the stone, dashing Fassir’s brains out. Then, chest heaving, he took two steps down and let the blood drip from his hands.
Finally he raised his eyes. “Slaughter them all, man and beast. Raze this place. No stone shall stand upon stone, no well shall be unpoisoned. Fire what will burn, save bodies that you pile to rot, and salt the earth so that for generations to come, this place will stand as a warning against defying the god-king Khalar Zym.”
CHAPTER 20
THE CLOUD OF dust raised by pursued and pursuer alerted Conan to their presence long before he heard hoofbeats or the rattle of the closed carriage. He rode toward them, paralleling their course as nearly as he could, seeking a pass through the hills that would allow him to study them before he made any decision to intervene. Finally he came over a low rise as they streamed out of a narrow cut and along a serpentine road running around the shore of a long-sincedried lake.
The carriage came in the lead, with a man whipping lathered horses into a frenzied gallop. A half dozen similarly attired men, all wearing hooded tunics of rust and homespun pants of gray, rode behind. Their pursuers, a full dozen men in black leather armor, with bows and spears, swords and shields, poured from the cut and lofted arrows toward the wagon. Dust stained their armor, emphasizing the tentacled mask crest on their breasts, but Conan did not need that sign to know they were enemies.
Their leader, a twisted man riding low in the saddle, had not changed since Conan had last seen him at the forge—save for perhaps having become even more ugly. He urged his men on with savage curses. As they split up to engage the carriage’s defenders, he cut to the right, intent on catching the wagon himself.
One of the lofted arrows descended, more by dint of luck than any skill, and caught the wagon’s driver in the back. He spun, clutching at it, but his legs collapsed. He fell from his seat and the wagon bumped over him. The wagon careened onward, outstripping its defenders, the team of four horses racing white-eyed from pursuit.
Conan set heels to his horse’s flanks and the beast leaped forward. The two cut down the hill, picking up speed, and came onto the flat scant yards behind the wagon. The Cimmerian urged his mount on, rising in the stirrups, then leaped into the empty seat and scooped up the reins.
He laughed at himself as arrows whizzed past. Even with his great strength, hauling back on the reins to slow the horses would be difficult. If he slowed them, Khalar Zym’s men would catch up. He might be able to control the horses, thereby preventing the wagon from being wrecked, but hitting a rock or hole at that speed, having a horse break a leg or fall to an arrow, would bring the wild ride to an end quickly, and still leave Khalar Zym’s warriors to deal with.
A small viewport snapped open and a woman looked out. “Who are you?”
“Can you drive a team?”
“What? Of course.”
“Good.” Conan glanced back as two of Khalar Zym’s men came riding fast. He made to hand her the reins through the slit. “Here. Drive.”
“What? No. Wait.” The viewport snapped shut.
Before Conan could muster a curse at womankind’s fickle frailty, the carriage’s door swung open. A slender woman, her long hair flying, arced from the interior, her hands anchored on the door. Her feet came up, then she twisted in the air and landed beside him, a smile blossoming on her lips. She snatched the reins from his hands. “Do you wish me to do more than just drive?”
“Try not to die.” Conan jumped from the seat to the carriage’s roof, drawing off his cloak. He whipped it toward the nearest of Khalar Zym’s riders, and then launched himself in its wake. The cloak wrapped the man in darkness, then Conan tackled him, dragging him from the saddle. They landed hard, the soldier breaking Conan’s fall and a half-dozen ribs in the process, then the barbarian rolled free, drawing his sword in one flowing motion.
The second rider slashed at the Cimmerian. Conan ducked the blow and struck. His cut caught the
rider just above his greave, shattering bone and slicing sinew. The lower half of the man’s leg came off, arterial blood pulsing hot and red, while the rider slumped to the left and fell. His foot caught in the stirrup, so his mount raced off, bucking and snorting, struggling to free itself from the dead thing dragging beside it.
Conan turned and kicked the first rider in the head before he could rise. He ran for that man’s horse, which had trotted to a stop, and gained the saddle easily. He reined around and quickly took stock of the battle.
The wagon’s defenders had given as good as they got. Their efforts cut the pursuit in half. Four of the defenders lay dead, and two clung to saddles despite being pierced by arrows. One of Khalar Zym’s men went after them, while the other two started down the road after the wagon.
Conan trotted his horse over to block their path.
One of them raised a spear as he reined up. “Delay us and you incur the wrath of Khalar Zym!”
“I will slay him as easily as I slay you.” Conan stabbed his bloody sword forward and kicked his horse in the ribs. The beast leaped forward, then sped toward the enemy. Conan knew better than to charge two armored men, especially when one had a spear and could pluck him from the saddle. But because they had the advantage of numbers, and could easily call their confederates to their aid, if he did not carry the battle to them and quickly, they would regain their wits and trap him.
He raced at them and then, at the last moment, shifted his sword from right hand to left and cut his horse to the right. This forced the spearman to raise his point past his horse’s head to keep it on target. By the time it came down, however, Conan had swept past. His sword whipped in. The spearman’s shield came up, and Conan’s blade sparked from the iron boss. The blade still caught the man in the forehead, denting his helmet instead of cleaving his skull in half.
He spun away, shield flying, spear falling. Conan reined his horse about hard and drove at the swordsman, who’d begun to turn left before he ran into his partner’s horse. Conan came around on his right. The man twisted in the saddle, futilely trying to parry Conan’s blade. The Cimmerian simply lowered his hand, letting the other man’s blade flash past, then stabbed up through his armpit and ripped the blade free.
Conan looked toward where the last of Khalar Zym’s men had ridden, but dust obscured his view. Then a black horse with an empty saddle rode free. Conan allowed himself to believe the last attacker dead, so he kicked his horse into a gallop. He gained ground quickly along the road and came around a bend just as, two hundred yards further on, Khalar Zym’s hunched lieutenant leaped from his saddle onto the coach’s roof.
The barbarian wanted to shout a warning, but the girl would never hear it. And what could she do? He urged the horse on faster, riding low in the saddle. If I cut across the dry lake bed there . . . But even that would have been of no use because Khalar Zym’s minion crept closer and closer. Even if his horse sprouted wings, Conan never could have gotten there in time to save her.
He snarled. Then Khalar Zym shall atone for your death as well.
The girl must have heard something, for she quickly cast a glance behind her. Without hesitation, her left foot came up and around, catching the minion square in the chest. He straightened up, arms milling to regain balance. He succeeded, a triumphant expression lighting his hideous face, then the wagon hit a bump and he flew into the air.
He came down heavily, bouncing once, but managed to catch hold of a cleat at the roof’s rear. His other hand came up, his fingers crashing through the roof. He dragged himself up, slithering on his belly. Inch by inch he pulled himself after her.
The girl looked back again. She shook her head, then squatted. She tugged at something, then came up again and displayed a steel shaft. She taunted the man with it, then blithely tossed it away.
Before Conan could be certain what she had done, two things happened. The woman leaped forward, onto the back of one of the horses. The wagon slowed as the horses sped on. The wagon’s tongue lanced down, stabbing into the road. Before it splintered, it caused the front wheels to turn sharply left and the wagon hurtled from the roadway.
Of the man on its roof Conan saw nothing until the first bounce. Wheels and bits thereof sailed in every direction. The man arced high into the air as the carriage box started tumbling across the lake bed. It flew to pieces, instantly reduced to jagged fragments. It scattered itself along a twenty-yard path, and the man rolled to the middle of it.
Conan guided the horse toward him and dismounted quickly. Khalar Zym’s man took one look at him and scrambled to his feet. He began to run in a shuffling gait, his path haphazard. Conan bent, picked up an iron wheel rim, and hurled it, tangling the man’s legs and dropping him to the cracked gray ground.
The minion had rolled to his back and held his hands up as Conan approached. “Mercy, sir, mercy.”
The Cimmerian stared down at him, seeing, now twisted in fear, a face he’d last seen warped by triumph and lit by the forge’s fire. He pressed the tip of his blade to the man’s throat. “You have one chance. Where is Khalar Zym?”
The man hesitated before he answered. Conan knew that hesitation well—civilized men always stopped to concoct lies. “If you seek Khalar Zym, then you can be a very rich man. I can guarantee you that.”
Conan’s eyes narrowed. “Should I believe your lies, or just backtrail you? I think I am better at tracking.”
“Wait, don’t kill him.”
Conan looked up as the woman approached. “I don’t need him. My mission ends where his began.”
“Your mission is to take me to Hyrkania.”
Conan glanced up toward the sun, then looked at her again. It was a bit early in the day for her to be heat-addled, and she didn’t have the look of a congenital idiot. “I do not know you.”
“My master knew you. He had a vision. He said a man would come to take me to Hyrkania.”
The Cimmerian thought for a moment. He’d believed Lucius was likely lying when he said Khalar Zym was seeking a woman in the Red Waste. Still, Zym’s men had been chasing her. The idea that her master had had a vision smacked of sorcery to him, but so did Khalar Zym and the entire Red Waste. “So you are the one Khalar Zym seeks?”
She frowned. “Who’s Khalar Zym?”
The minion sucked at his teeth. “Yes, Master, this is the one Khalar Zym wants. He’ll pay well for her return. You can be as we are, as we, his faithful, will be. You can be a god, too.”
The woman folded her arms over her chest. “I have no knowledge of this Khalar Zym. I just know that Master Fassir said you would take me Hyrkania.”
“No, Master, you cannot do that.” The ugly man gingerly pushed Conan’s sword out of line with his throat. “Khalar Zym is not to be thwarted. If you do not submit, he shall chase you to the end of the earth. He will hound you from Khitai to the Black Kingdoms, and even to the frozen plains of Cimmeria. You must believe me.”
“I do believe you, little man.” Conan stabbed his sword into the earth and crouched. He held his hands before the minion’s face, revealing chain scars traced with dirt and blood. “I remember the last time he was there. I’ve come to remind him of it, then to ensure that’s the last thought that ever travels through his mind.”
CHAPTER 21
SO USED WAS she to the ritual that Marique could have made quick work of unbuckling her father’s armor. The well-worn leather straps were compliant conspirators in what she did, but she did not move with haste. Beneath the armor, beneath the boiled-leather shell, she could feel her father’s warmth. She relished it, and took great joy in being of service to him, no matter how tiny that service might be.
Someday he will understand the true significance of all I do for him.
At the moment, however, in his grand cabin aboard the land ship, her father’s attention remained focused on one thing: the Mask of Acheron. Unforgivably ancient, the golden brown of aged ivory, with a serpent-scale texture and tentacles arrayed as if rays of the sun, the mask l
ay between his hands, at once terrible and hideous, yet possessed of a beauty born of its potential. His thumbs caressed the cheeks as he might have caressed a lover’s flesh.
As he caressed my mother’s face.
Marique removed the armor’s back plate and set it aside. She started working on the next layer of buckles, beginning at the top.
“The prize is near, Father. You possess the mask, and soon you shall have the blood to fill it.”
“Yes, very soon.” His fingers played over the forehead. “It was your mother’s dream to wear the mask. Magick flowed in her blood, as it does in yours. She yearned for the power, she sought the secrets of Acheron’s forgotten sorcery. Without her and her work, we would not be on this brink.”
Marique hesitated, letting a single finger caress the silken undertunic her father wore beneath the armor. His scent rose from within the shell, filling her head, warming her heart. She longed to press her cheek to his back, to linger in his presence. She drew strength from him. She hoped for a second or two of his attention, thinking that would be enough to sustain her forever, and yet knowing it would be but a drop in a vast ocean of desire.
Khalar Zym glanced back over his shoulder. “Imagine, Marique . . .”
“Yes, Father . . .”
“Imagine the secrets she will bring back with her from the realms of the dead.” His voice grew from a reverent whisper to a bold declaration. “She will have spent her time well, you know. She will have pierced mysteries that have confounded necromancer and philosopher alike. Even sorcerers who were born prior to the fall of Acheron will bow before her wisdom, the wisdom of a woman who dared venture to a realm that frightens them all.”
“Yes, Father . . .” Marique worked at the next buckle. Does he not remember that I was there? He remembers her death as he needs to. Before the monks it was a foul crime. Now it becomes a bold sacrifice that launched her on a quest for lore arcane and obscure. Her mistakes, her foolishness, is what led her to her death. Is it sane to assume she will return any the wiser?
Conan the Barbarian Page 15
