Conan The Valiant

by Roland Green

  "Let me water Windmaster, and I'll be off."

  "Mitra—" The words died in Bora's throat. He would not praise Mitra tonight, not when the god had let his good servant Ivram die like a dog.

  Conan crouched behind the chimney of the inn. Enough of the mob now carried torches to show clearly all he needed to see. Too many, perhaps. If he could see, he might also be seen, for all that he'd blacked his skin with soot from the hearth in Illyana's chamber.

  Both the mob and Achmai's men were where they had been the last time he looked. Most likely they would not move further—until he made them move.

  Time to do just that.

  Conan crawled across the roof to the rear of the inn and shouted, "All right! We hold the stables. They won't be in any danger from there!"

  As he returned to the front, Conan heard with pleasure a shout from Achmai's ranks.

  "Who said that? Sergeants, count your men!"

  Conan allowed the counting to be well begun, then shouted, imitating a sergeant's voice, "Ha! I've two missing."

  Then, imitating the captain:

  "These town pigs have made away with them. Draw swords! That's two insults to Lord Achmai!"

  Angry, confused shouting ran along the line of Achmai's men. Conan raised his voice, to imitate a youth.

  "Achmai's hired swords want to save their witch friends. Well, take that, you sheep rapers!"

  A roof tile placed ready to hand flew over the heads of the mob, driven by a stout Cimmerian arm. It plummeted into the ranks of Achmai's riders, striking a man from his saddle.

  "Fools!" the captain screamed. "We're friends. We want—"

  His protests came too late. Stones followed Conan's tile. A horse reared, tossing his rider from the saddle. Comrades of the fallen men drew their swords and spurred their mounts forward. When they reached the edge of the mob, they began laying about them.

  The mob in turn writhed like a nest of serpents and growled like a den of hungry bears. One bold spirit thrust a torch at a swordsman's horse. It threw its rider, who vanished among dozens of hands clutching at him. Conan heard his screams, ending suddenly.

  The fight between Achmai's men and the mob had drawn enough blood now. It would take the leaders on either side longer to stop it than it would take Conan and his people to flee Haruk.

  Conan ran to the rear of the inn, uncaring of being seen. "Ride!" he shouted at the stable door. It squealed open, and Raihna led the others toward the street.

  Illyana came last. As she reached the gate, curses and shouts told Conan that the street was not wholly deserted. Illyana waved, then put her head down and her spurs in.

  Conan leaped from the roof of the inn to the roof of the woodshed and landed rolling. He let himself roll, straight off the woodshed on to straw bales. His horse was already free; he flew into the saddle without touching the stirrups.

  He had the horse up to a canter and his sword drawn as he passed the gate. To the people in the street, it must have seemed that the blackfaced Cimmerian was a demon conjured up by the witch. They might hate witchcraft, but they loved their lives more. They scattered, screaming.

  Conan took a street opposite to the one Illyana had used and did not slow below a gallop until he was out of town. It was as well, for he had not gone unseen by men with their wits about them. Torches and fires showed half a dozen men riding hard after him.

  Conan sheathed his sword and unslung his bow. Darkness did not make for the best practice. He still crippled three horses and emptied one saddle before his pursuers saw the wisdom of letting him go.

  Conan slung his bow, counted his arrows, then dismounted to let his horse blow and drink. His own drink was the last of the innkeeper's wine. When the leather bottle was empty, he threw it away, mounted again, and trotted away across country.

  Eremius raised his staff. The silver head bore gouges and scars from its passage through rocks and earth, but its powers seemed undiminished.

  From his other wrist the Jewel glowed, its fire subdued by the dawn light but steady as ever. Once again he considered whether Illyana sought harm to his Jewel, even at cost to her own? That was a question he would surely ask, when the time came to wring from her all her knowledge.

  This morning, it was only important that his Jewel was intact. Now he could regain some part of his victory. Not all, because too many of the villagers yet lived. But enough to give new heart to his human servants and even the Transformed, if their minds could grasp what they were about to see.

  Eremius rested the head of his staff on the Jewel. Fire blazed forth, stretched out, then gathered itself into a ball and flew across the village. It flew onward, up the hill beyond the village and over its crest.

  "Long live the Master!"

  Human shouts mingled with the raw-throated howls of the Transformed. The crest of the hill shuddered, heaved itself upward, then burst apart into a hundred flying boulders, each the size of a hut.

  The end of that thrice-cursed priest's shrin!

  If the man lived, he would have an end nearly as hard as Illyana's. He and the youth who helped him cast the Powder and free the villagers!

  Eremius would recognize them if he saw them again, too. He had torn their faces out of the prisoners' minds before letting the Transformed tear their bodies. Slowly, too, with both minds and bodies. The Transformed had not learned to love the agony of their prey, but they could be taught.

  Meanwhile—

  Staff and Jewel met again. Once, twice, thrice balls of emerald fire leaped forth. They formed a triangle encompassing the village, then settled to the roofs of three houses.

  Where they settled, flames spewed from the solid stone. Eremius lifted staff and Jewel a final time, and purple smoke rose above the flames.

  Stonefire was smokeless by nature. Eremius wanted to paint Crimson Spring's fate across the sky, for all to see.

  Maryam lifted her eyes from Ivram's dead face to the eastern sky. Those eyes were red but dry. Whatever weeping she had done, it was finished before Bora came.

  "A child," she said in a rasping voice.

  "Who?" Bora knew his own voice was barely a croak. Sleep had begun to seem a thing told of in legends but never done by mortal men.

  "The demons' master. A vicious child, who can't win, so he smashes the toys."

  "Just—just so he can't smash us," Bora muttered. He swayed.

  Two strong arms came around him, steadying him, then lowering him to the ground. "Sit, Bora. I can do well enough by a guest, as little as I have."

  He heard as from a vast distance the clink of metal on metal and the gurgle of liquid pouring. A cup of wine seemed to float out of the air before his face. He smelled herbs in the wine.

  "Only a posset. Drink."

  "I can't sleep. The people—"

  "You must sleep. We need you with your wits about you." One hand too strong to resist gripped Bora's head, the other held the cup to his lips. Sweet wine and pungent herbs overpowered his senses, then his will. He drank.

  Sleep took him long before the cup was empty.

  Conan reached the meeting place as dawn gave way to day. Raihna was asleep, Dessa and Massouf had found the strength for another quarrel, and only Illyana greeted him.

  She seemed to have regained all her strength and lost ten years of age. Her step as she came downhill was as light as that of her dancer's image, and her smile as friendly.

  "Well done, Conan, if you will accept my praise. That was such good work that even a sorceress can recognize it."

  In spite of himself, Conan smiled. "I thank you, Illyana. Have you any new knowledge of our friend Eremius?"

  "Only that he once more commands his Jewel, as I

  do mine. That is not altogether bad. Some part of—of what I sensed last night—told me his Jewel had been in danger."

  "Wouldn't smashing Eremius's Jewel be winning the battle?"

  "At too great a price. The Jewels are among the supreme creations of all magic. To grind them to powder as if they wer
e pebbles, to lose all that might be learned by using them wisely together—I would feel unclean if I had a hand in it."

  Conan would not trust his tongue. He already felt unclean, from too long in the company of too much magic. Now he felt a sharp pang of suspicion. Perhaps the Jewels could teach much, to one fit to learn. Likely enough, though, it would be what their creators or discoverers wanted learned.

  Something of Conan's thoughts must have shown on his face. Illyana feigned doubt.

  "Also, it is said that destroying one Jewel without destroying the other makes the survivor far more dangerous. No one can command it."

  "A fine mess of 'it is saids' the Jewels carry with them! Didn't you learn a little truth while you studied with Eremius?"

  Illyana's face turned pale and she seemed about to choke. Conari remembered Raihna's advice and started to apologize.

  "No," Illyana said. "You have the right to ask, a right I grant to few. I also have the duty to answer. I learned as much as I could, but Eremius gave me little help. What he wished me to learn was—other matters."

  She shook herself like a wet dog, and the nightmares seemed to pass. "Where do we go now, Conan?"

  "Fort Zheman, and swiftly."

  "A garrison may show us scant hospitality, unless we use Mishrak's name."

  "Time we did that anyway. We're close to country where we need mountain horses. Besides, we owe it to Dessa to leave her among enough men to keep her happy!"

  At Illyana's laugh, Raihna stretched catlike and began to waken.

  Thirteen

  THE WESTERING SUN glowed a hand's breadth above the horizon. Fingers of blue shadow gripped the commander's garden in Fort Zheman. Beside one of his predecessor's rose bushes, Captain Shamil turned to face Yakoub.

  "There has to be more than you're telling me, my young friend," Shamil growled.

  Yakoub spread his hands in a gesture of dismay that was not altogether feigned. Was this fool about to seek wisdom at a most inconvenient time?

  "Why should I lie to you? Even if I did, is not a fair woman in your bed worth much?"

  "If she's as fair as you say. I remind you that I haven't yet seen the woman, even clothed."

  A whiplash of anger cracked in Yakoub's voice. "Must I need to remind you of how long you've served us? Of how this would seem to Mughra Khan? Of how easy it would be for him to learn?"

  The reply was not what Yakoub expected. It was a dour smile, spread hands and a shrug.

  "I have forgotten none of these things. There is something you may have forgotten. My under-captain Khezal is not of our party. If I were removed, he would command Fort Zheman."

  "Who cares what a well-born lapdog like that may do or leave undone?"

  "Khezal's less of the lapdog and more of the wolf than you think. The men know it, too. They'd follow him where he led, even if it was against us."

  If I could only be sure he was telling the truth!

  Khezal seemed no more than a nobleman's foppish son doing a term on the frontier before returning to a more comfortable post close to court. Having such a man commanding Fort Zheman would be no small victory. Under him the fort would surely fall to Master Eremius's servants.

  Then the whole province would be ablaze with rebellion or fleeing in fear. The greater the menace, the larger the army sent to deal with it. The larger the army, the more men under Lord Houma's command. The more men, the more power in Lord Houma's hands on the day he chose to act. If Shamil told the truth, however, Khezal would lead Fort Zheman well enough, besides being no part of Lord Houma's faction. Yakoub pretended to contemplate a creamy yellow rose with a deep russet heart while he weighed risks. He remembered his father's words, "Remember that decision in war is always a gamble. The difference between the wise captain and the foolish one is knowing how much you're gambling."

  Yakoub chose to be a wise captain. He could not gamble away power over Fort Zheman.

  "I won't command or beg. I'll just offer my help in keeping Raihna's guardians away. Once she knows they're looking the other way, she'll be hot for your bed."

  "Now you begin to talk sense. What kind of help? If you're trying to make me think you can fight off a whole merchant family—"

  "Am I a fool? Have I seemed to think you one?"

  "Better if I didn't answer that, I think."

  Yakoub sighed. The fear of failure was giving way to weariness at dealing with such as Shamil. Caraya was so different, so clean in heart and mind and body. It was impossible not to love her.

  It was impossible, also, not to wonder. When victory crowned Houma's banners, he could offer her more than she could have ever dreamed of. Would she forgive what he had done, to reach the place where he could offer it?

  Yakoub shook off the forebodings. "Well, I don't think you a fool, and the gods grant I am none either. I can make free with my purse. That should keep the lady's guards looking the other way for a night and silent afterward. Can you have some of your men ready to hand, in case my gold does not do all that it should?"

  "If you'll pay them."

  "That's within reason."

  The price they finally negotiated was not. Yakoub considered that if matters went on in this way, Lord Houma might face taking the throne as the only alternative to being imprisoned for debt!

  To be sure, Shamil's price had to be considered in the light of what the men would face. Yakoub did not expect many of the men to survive the Cimmerian's sword. This did not matter, as long as the Cimmerian himself did not survive either.

  With Conan dead and Raihna the plaything of the garrison, Illyana would be easy prey. To gain the Jewel of Kurag and deliver it to Eremius would be at least imaginable for one swift of blade, foot, and wit. Even if Yakoub could not himself snatch the Jewel and earn Eremius's reward, victory would be far closer.

  The shadow fingers gripped almost the whole courtyard when Yakoub left the garden. He turned toward his quarters under a darkening sky and a rising wind. By the time he pulled the shutters of his room, he could hear it whining above. On the keep, the banner of Turan stood stiff and black against the flaming hues of sunset.

  "All's well," came Raihna's voice from behind Conan.

  The Cimmerian finished his turn more slowly than he had begun it. "Don't slip up behind anyone else here, Raihna. They might finish their turn with sword in hand, ready to push through your guts."

  "The men wouldn't be such fools."

  "The veterans, no. The others, I don't know. Not the kind to listen to tales of demons on the march without seeing enemies everywhere. And even the veterans lost friends in those outposts that vanished."

  "I'll take care." She stood on tiptoe and kissed Conan in a way that might have looked chaste from a distance. It set the Cimmerian's blood seething. With a will of their own, his arms went around her.

  Self-command returned. "Come, my lady's sister," he said with a grin. "We must not make anyone suspicious."

  "Indeed, no. The family's pride—it would not countenance a caravan guardsman's suit."

  "I shall not always be what I am, Raihna," Conan said, still grinning.

  "That's as certain as anything can be," Raihna replied. She gently pushed him away, with hands not altogether steady in spite of the smile on her face.

  Both knew that being welcomed at the fort without having to mention the name of Mishrak was either unexpected good fortune or a subtle trap. Until they knew, they were all determined to play out their masquerade as long as possible. If they could play it out for their entire sojurn at Fort Zheman, it might even confuse those who had set any trap, until they sprang it too late.

  With the garrison under strength, this wing of the barracks was nearly deserted. Conan and Raihna met no one on their way to her room. From the stairway floated the sound of crude revelry, as the soldiers' drinking hall on the ground floor began its evening's work.

  Conan threw the bolts on Illyana's room and likewise that of Dessa and Massouf. Then he shifted one of his knives from boot to belt.


  "I'm going down for a cup of wine or two. It's what I'd be expected to do. I may also learn more about the demons."

  "Learn more about where to find mountain horses, if you can. I'd rather buy them somewhere else than the fort. It's easier to silence tongues with gold."

  "You have your wits about you, Raihna.'•'

  "Alas, he praises only my wits. Yet I have heard not one word of complaint about—"

  "I wouldn't dare complain about the other matters, woman. You'd leave me fit only for that work Mishrak promised me, in the Vendhyan harems!"

  He slapped her on the rump and gave her a kiss without the least flavor of chastity. She returned it in the same manner, then unbolted her door and slipped inside.

  The barracks roof rose higher than the walls of the fort. That it held no sentries was a pleasant surprise to Yakoub. Either the garrison was even more slack than he had expected, or Shamil had removed the sentries to ease his own way to Raihna.

  Yakoub would be the victor, in either case.

  Black clothing and a soot-blackened face made Yakoub one with the night as he crouched at the edge of the roof. Setting the hook took little time; unrolling the knotted rope took less. From his belt he hung the tools he hoped he would not need. They had been made for him and others like him by a master thief, as payment for a gold-paved road out of Agh-rapur.

  Entering the chambers of a sorcerer could be a chancy undertaking. Always in legend and often in truth, they used their arts to defend themselves and their possessions in ways difficult to imagine and impossible for common men to defeat. Sometimes the defenses gave intruders a horrible death.

  Just as surely, sorcerers had this in common with ordinary men: they could grow forgetful or careless. If tonight Yakoub could at least learn what Illyana might have left undone…

  And if she has left so much undone that you may snatch the Jewel tonight?

  Then Captain Shamil and his men need not look for reward or protection.

  Hope lifted Yakoub for a moment. He fought it down. He would not climb down that rope with a head full of dreams. That would only end with him shattered on the stone of the courtyard, with the flies fighting for space on his eyelids.