Conan The Valiant

by Roland Green

  Mishrak will want to know how Lord Achmai commands such men, was Conan's thought. For that matter, so do I.

  Meanwhile, the girl had been swaying as she pulled her clothes into order. At last she drew a deep breath, and Conan cursed. From where he stood, he could only silence the girl by cutting her down, and that he would not do.

  A moment later, the girl let out all her breath in a wild shriek.

  "Help! Help! Guards! Thieves in the stables! Help! Help!"

  Then she turned and ran. Faroush seemed to consider the alarm given and did the same, sword in hand.

  Conan turned to Illyana. "Do you have a spell to speed our way out of here, by chance?"

  Illyana frowned. "I cannot fly us all. Not the horses, certainly, and we will need them to outstrip—"

  "Curse you, woman! Is this a time for bantering? Yes or no?"

  "Yes. If you can give me a trifle of time and find some way to slow the pursuit."

  Conan looked at the stable door. It looked stout enough to defy anything short of a battering ram or fire. Achmai's men would hardly burn the stable over the heads of their own horses.

  Conan bent to pick up Dessa and jerked his head toward the stable. "Inside, and be quick about it."

  The door crashed shut. Darkness embraced them. Conan fumbled for the bar. As he slid it into place, fists began pounding on the outside.

  A dim emerald glow swelled behind him. He turned, to see the Jewel glowing on Illyana's wrist. She was taking off her tunic.

  "What in Erlik's name—?"

  Illyana drew her tunic off and bared all her teeth in a grin. "Have you never heard that one must be unclothed to cast a spell?"

  "I've seen a good many women who could indeed cast spells unclothed, but they weren't your kind."

  "Well, Cimmerian, you learn something new of magic every day you are in my company."

  "Whether I wish it or not!"

  Conan listened to the din outside the door, the shouts, the curses, the rasp of drawn swords, and a" few men trying to make their orders heard. By the time he knew they faced no immediate danger, Illyana was bare save for the Jewel on one wrist and a rune-carved ivory bracelet on the other.

  The emerald light from the Jewel flowed over her fair skin, turning the hue of bronze long under the sea.

  She might have been some Atlantean goddess, risen from the waves to strike at those who overthrew her city.

  Conan drew his dagger and stalked down the line of horses, cutting their tethers or opening their stall doors. By the time all were free, Illyana was standing by her mount, wearing an impatient look as well as the Jewel and bracelet.

  "All that I can do here has been done. It is time to ride."

  Conan heaved Dessa over the neck of his horse and swung into the saddle. Illyana lifted the Jewel and chanted.

  "Chaos, thrice-cursed, hear our blessing—" followed by something about twice as long in a tongue Conan neither knew nor wanted to know.

  A whirlwind burst the straw and hay bales apart. The loose straw and hay rose above Conan's head, then fell back into a corner, piled as high as a man. As if kicked, the brazier toppled over, scattering burning coals into the straw and hay. Flames ran up the pile, touched the pitch-laden walls, and leaped toward the ceiling.

  Then Illyana made a fist of the hand bearing the Jewel and brought it down like a blacksmith's hammer. The stable door burst apart as if a battering ram had indeed struck it.

  "Hiyaaa!"

  Conan screamed the war cries of half a dozen races as he spurred his horse into the ranks of Achmai's men. His broadsword leaped and flashed in the firelight, slashing to either side.

  He still made poor practice. His mount was hardly war-trained, besides carrying double. It mattered little, since his foes were scattering even as he reached them. A good many had fallen to the scything timbers of the stable door. The rest might have fought against men, but not against magic. Illyana's appearance, nude and blazing with emerald light, finished them.

  It was as well that the courtyard was swiftly clear. Illyana had to ride thrice in a circle, chanting more arcane words, before flame leaped once more from the Jewel. It struck once, twice, at each hinge and fastening of the gate. At each stroke of fire, metal smoked, then melted and ran. A final stroke pushed the gates down altogether, like a child pushing down a sand castle.

  Over the smoldering ruins of the gates, Conan and Illyana rode into the night.

  They stopped about halfway back to the meeting place with Raihna and Massouf, to rest the horses and listen for sounds of pursuit. Conan heard none, nor was Illyana much surprised.

  "Few of the horses will take much harm, if the men lead them out of the stable in time. Fewer still will be fit for work tonight."

  "They won't be coming after me?" Dessa sounded half-outraged, half-relieved.

  "With no horses and their chief so sound asleep an earthquake couldn't wake him? Those are men, not wizards!" Conan growled.

  "She's a wizard," Dessa said, pointing at Illyana. "And you're some kind of soldier. Why did you take me away from the Hold?"

  "We told you. We are returning to your betrothed."

  Illyana burrowed into her saddlebags and started pulling out clothes. She had ridden naked from the Hold, uncaring of the night chill.

  Dessa was less enduring. She snatched the clothes from Illyana, then dropped them as if they were an armful of nettles.

  "Now what?" Conan growled.

  "I won't wear her clothes. They might be tainted with her magic."

  "Then wear mine," Conan said. One of his tunics came down nearly to Dessa's knees, but it did more or less clothe her.

  "I suppose I should thank you," Dessa said at last. "But—did you ever think I might have wanted to stay? I did, you know."

  Conan's and Illyana's eyes met above Dessa's head. The sorceress was the first to find her tongue.

  "Dessa, Massouf loves you. Or so he says," she added.

  "What he says and what he does are two different things, lady. His real love is gold. That's why he was enslaved. Even if he'd succeeded at his schemes, he wouldn't have given me half as much as Achmai and his men. I was better off even at the Three Coins, for Mitra's sake!"

  She looked beseechingly at Conan. "Captain, if I might have something for my feet, I'll trouble you no more. I can make my own way back to—"

  "Crom!" The oath flew out of Conan's mouth like the flame from the Jewel. Both women flinched. Conan drew breath.

  "Dessa, we swore an oath to bring you back to Massouf. We're somewhat in his debt. The gods do not love unpaid debts." Dessa opened her mouth but a glare from Conan pushed the words back into it unuttered.

  "You won't find yourself welcome back at the Hold, either," Conan went on. "They can't be sure you didn't want to escape. You'll be scrubbing the pots and being scrubbed out by the potboys if you go back."

  Dessa still looked obstinate. "If you don't fear the gods or Achmai's men, try fearing me," Conan finished. "Dessa, if you take one step toward the Hold, you'll have to meet Massouf standing. I'll leave you in no state to sit down!"

  Silently consigning all women to a place as far as possible from him, Conan unhooked the water bottles and went in search of a spring.

  Ten

  THEY RODE OUT at dawn, as the Iranistanis measured it—when a man could tell a black horsehair from a white one.

  For a while Conan and Raihna led their mounts, to ease their way across the broken ground. With the two hired horses for Dessa and Massouf, no one needed to ride double for lack of mounts.

  Lack of riding skill was another matter. Dessa rode like a sack of grain and Massouf hardly better. If it came to swift flight, Conan and Raihna would be taking their saddle-shy charges up on their own mounts.

  So far they had seen no sign of pursuit, and Conan aimed to put off that moment as long as possible. They kept away from the main roads and indeed from the greater part of the mountain byways. Sheep tracks or bare hillside saw them pass, and of men only
an occasional herdsman and once a hermit.

  "They are a close-mouthed breed, these mountain folk," Conan said. "Oh, gold or torture can open their mouths like any man's. But it takes a while. Besides, torturing free Turanians is a fine way for Achmai to lose whatever good will he has in Aghrapur."

  "Their flocks can see anything the herdsmen see," Illyana said.

  "All the sheep and goats I've known were even more close-mouthed than the herdsmen," Conan replied, with a grin. It was a fine fair morning and although tired he was in high good humor. A battle fairly fought and splendidly won always left him so.

  "There are ways to make even the dumb speak," Illyana said soberly.

  "How?" Conan laughed. "I can just imagine Achmai shouting at a ram—'Who passed this way yesterday? Answer, or I'll roast you for our dinner!' I can't imagine him getting an answer."

  "Not that way, no."

  Conan's grin twisted. "Are there spells for making animals speak?"

  "For learning what they have seen, yes."

  "Does Achmai command them?" The upland morning suddenly seemed as cold as a Cimmerian autumn.

  "Neither he nor anyone who serves him commands any magic. But if he wished vengeance enough and knew of Eremius—the Master of the other Jewel knows all the spells. He might even have learned to cast them over such a distance. It has been ten years since we met. I no longer can be sure I know everything he does."

  She forced a smile. "At least there is one consolation. He can no longer be sure that he knows everything I know. And I have not spent those ten years in idleness or debauchery."

  The smile widened. "Why, Conan, I truly begin to think you are curious about magic. Are you becoming willing to live with it?"

  "Maybe, when I can't live without it," Conan growled. "Of course, I can live with the kind of magic you danced up, any day or night. I wonder if your whole scheme came from wanting to show yourself like that—"

  The smile vanished and the fair skin flushed. Illyana dropped back to ride beside Dessa and Massouf. Conan spurred forward, to ride level with Raihna, muttering rude remarks about women who could be neither chaste nor unchaste.

  "That was an ill-spoken jest," Raihna said, when the Cimmerian fell silent.

  "Am I to learn why, or must I guess?"

  "You will learn if Illyana chooses to tell you. Not otherwise. It is not my secret to tell."

  "Not telling me all I need to know is sending me into this fight blind."

  "Ah, Conan. Surely not that. One-eyed at worst."

  "That's bad enough, against an opponent with two eyes. Or didn't Master Barathres teach you that? If he didn't, you should go back to Bossonia and get your fees back from him, at the point of a—"

  Raihna's hand leaped at his cheek so swiftly he had no time to seize it. Instead he blocked the blow, then gripped Raihna's arm just above the elbow.

  "Another ill-timed jest?"

  "Let me go, curse you!"

  "I've been cursed by a good many men and women, and I'm healthier than most of them."

  Then he saw that tears were starting from her eyes. He released her and guided his horse to a safe distance, while she reined in and sat in silence, shaking and weeping silently.

  At last she pushed her fists into her eyes, sighed, and faced Conan once more.

  "Conan, forgive me. That was a cruel jest indeed, but you could not have known how much so. I am an exile from Bossonia. I have no home save where Illyana chooses to lead me. Illyana or someone worse.

  "So I owe her silence about her secrets and perhaps a trifle more. Tell me, my Cimmerian friend. What would you say to a jest, that High Captain Khadjar was in the pay of Lord Houma?"

  Conan felt the blood rush to his face. Raihna laughed, pointing at a fist he'd raised without realizing it.

  "You see. I owe Illyana as much or more as you owe Khadjar. Let's follow an old Bossonian saying—'if you won't burn my haystacks, my cattle won't befoul your well.'Truce?"

  Conan guided his horse close again and put an arm around her. She nestled into it for a moment.

  "Truce."

  From the ravine, the last frantic bellowings had died. So had the last of the herd of cattle. Even Master Eremius heard only the gobbling, tearing, and cracking as the Transformed dismembered the bodies. From time to time he heard growls and squeals as they quarreled over some particularly succulent piece.

  He did not fear the quarrels would turn bloody. The Transformed were no disciplined army, but the elders among them had ways of keeping the peace. At times, Eremius suspected, those ways meant the disappearance of one or two of their number. A waste, but not a great one.

  Today nothing of that nature would happen. The Transformed had a feast under their claws. They also had foreknowledge of a greater feast tonight, with human flesh to rend and human terror to savor.

  Captain Nasro scrambled up to Eremius's perch and knelt.

  "Master, the stream at the foot of the ravine grows foul. Blood and ordure make it unfit for drinking."

  "It matters not at all to the Transformed. Or have you forgotten that?"

  "I remember, Master." He swallowed, sweat breaking out on his face. "Yet—do you—I also remember —that our men, those not Transformed—they need clean water."

  "Then let them go upstream from the ravine and drink there!" Eremius snarled. The force of his anger made his staff lift from the ground and whirl toward the captain's head. Eremius let the staff come so close that the man flinched, then made it tap him lightly on the cheek.

  "Think, man. Would I have let your men go thirsty? I have left you and them alike enough wits to find food and water. Go use them, and leave me in peace!"

  Nasro flinched again, bowed again, and retreated.

  Alone save for his thoughts and the din of the Transformed feeding, Eremius sat down, staff across his knees. It was a pity he could not hope that Nasro and all his men would perish in tonight's battle among the villages. The villagers would hardly offer enough resistance.

  Besides, he still needed Nasro and the rest of his witlings. Only when both Jewels were at his command could he amuse himself by disposing of them.

  That promised to be a most agreeable day. So did another, the day he made the Transformed able to breed and breed true. Transformed and commanded by the powers of a single Jewel, they were barren. When Eremius held both Jewels, matters would be otherwise. Then he would also command a regular tribute of women to be Transformed and bear more such.

  It was said that the children of those Transformed by both Jewels reached their full growth in a single year. Eremius would most assuredly put that to the proof at the earliest moment. If it was true, he would have one more irresistible gift to offer his allies.

  Of course, with Illyana's aid or at least her Jewel he could have proved the matter and offered the gift ten years ago! That thought no longer ruled his mind, as the day of open battle and victory drew closer. It still lurked in his spirit, snarling like a surly watchdog and able to darken the brightest day.

  "The stream's turned all bloody!"

  "The demons have cursed it!"

  "Who brought their wrath upon us?"

  "Find him!"

  At those last words Bora broke into a run. He wanted to reach the stream before the crowd decided he was the one they should find and turned into a mob searching for him.

  The shouting swelled. Bora had never run so fast in his life, save when fleeing the mountain demons. He burst out of the village and plunged through the crowd. He was on the bank of the stream before anyone saw him coming.

  There he stopped, looking down into water commonly as cool and clear as his sister Caraya's eyes. Now it was turning an evil, pustulant scarlet. Bits of nameless filth floated on the surface and an evil reek smote Bora's nostrils.

  Around him the villagers were giving way. Did they fear him or was it only the stink of the stream? He laughed, then swallowed hard. He feared that if he began laughing now, he would not easily stop.

  Holding his
breath, he knelt and scooped up a bit of floating filth. Then he smiled.

  "Now we know what became of Perek's cattle!" he shouted. "They must have fallen into some ravine upstream. Hard luck for Perek."

  "Hard luck for us, too!" someone shouted. "Can we all drink from the wells, until the stream runs clear again?"

  "What else is there to do?" Bora asked, shrugging.

  This reasonable question made some nod. Others frowned. "What if the cattle died—in a way against nature?" one of these said. None dared say the word "demons," as if their name might call them. "Will the water ever run clean again?"

  "If—anything against nature—had a hand in this, it will show in the water," Bora said. He had to take a deep breath before he knew he could say the next words in a steady voice. "I will step into the water. If I step out unharmed, we need fear no more than rotting cattle."

  This speech drew both cheers and protests. Several arguments and at least one fight broke out between the two factions. Bora ignored both and began stripping off his clothes. If he did not do this quickly, he might well lose the courage to do it at all.

  The water was chill as always, biting with sharp, angry teeth that began on his toes and ended at his chest. He would not sink his face and head in that filthy water.

  Bora stayed in the stream until numbness blunted the water's teeth. By then the crowd was silent as the mist in the demons' valley. He stayed a trifle longer, until he began to lose feeling in his toes and fingers. Then he turned toward the bank.

  He needed help to climb out, but enough villagers rushed forward to help a dozen men. Others had brought towels. They surrounded him, to chafe and rub until his skin turned from blue to pink and his teeth stopped chattering.

  Caraya came, with a steaming posset cup and a look he had seldom seen on her face. Her tongue was no more gentle than usual, however. "Bora, that was a foolish thing to do! What would have become of us if the demons took you?"

  "I didn't think there were any demons. But I could hardly ask anyone to believe me, unless I proved it. If I hadn't—what would have become of you if they thought I'd brought the demons and stoned me to death!"