by Roland Green
Conan joined the soldiers with the resolve to drink little and listen much. The wine was better than his resolve and the tales he heard were equal to either.
Rumors of demons swarmed like flies on a dungheap, and some tales went beyond rumor. There could be no doubling green lights in the sky and a pillar of smoke where there was neither forest nor volcano.
Conan drew out of his fellow drinkers the times of both. The hour of the green lights was the same as Illyana's battle against her old Master's demon-conjuring.
No patrols had gone out from the fort, to seek what lay behind these portents. The greater part of the recruits seemed relieved, not to be facing demoncraft without the aid of stone walls.
Conan was tempted to tell them how little the walls would aid them, if half of what Illyana said was true. He recognized the temptation as a child of the wine and held his tongue.
The veterans seemed less content with the decision about patrols. They also seemed to blame it more on Shamil than on Khezal. That the veterans should trust an elegant lordling of the same stamp as Lord Houma's son was curious. It was also a matter on which Conan could think of no questions subtle enough to be safe.
It was then that he knew he had drunk enough. Best to seek his bed and a trifle of sleep, if Raihna was not to watch all night!
Besides, the veterans were outnumbered two to one by the recruits. Fort Zheman would stand or fall on what the recruits could do or be led into. Conan resolved to give whoever led them as much help as he would accept, emptied his cup in a final toast to King Yildiz, and marched out.
Conan took no pleasure in being awakened by a barnyard din in the hall. It seemed that he had barely closed his eyes. He dashed water in his face as the din swelled. He was fully clothed save for boots and sword. Snatching his blade from under the blankets, he flung the door open.
As he did, Raihna's door crashed open. Captain Shamil seemed to fly through it, sword in hand but otherwise helpless. Had Conan not caught him by the sleeve as he shot past, Shamil would have bashed his head into the opposite wall.
"Unhand me, you Cimmerian dog!" the man snarled. "I have somewhat to settle with your mistress's oh-so-chaste sister!"
Conan frowned. "Perhaps I should have let you knock yourself against the wall. Then you wouldn't be speaking in riddles."
"You know what I mean!" the captain shouted, loud enough to raise echoes. "Or are you a eunuch without knowledge of when a woman will open her bed to a man?"
Conan was not too drunk to know a question best left unanswered. Also, he would have had to outshout Raihna had he wished to speak.
"He is no eunuch, and I can—give you the names of a half-score women who know it!"
Conan was glad of Raihna's discretion. He would have been gladder still, had she not been standing in the doorway of her room, wearing only her sword and a look of fury.
"He is no eunuch, any more than I am a toy for such as you!" she went on. "Be off, Captain. Be off, and I will call this only a misunderstanding and say no more of it. Otherwise—"
"Otherwise what, you brazen bitch? Your Cimmerian ape may be no eunuch, but I am no witling. I know that you play the chaste woman only when he may bear tales. Let me settle with him, and you will not call this night ill-spent."
Conan had his sword drawn before the captain's speech was half-uttered. The Cimmerian crouched, parrying with flat against edge while drawing his dagger. The subtleties of Raihna's two-blade style were beyond him; he simply thrust his dagger upward into Shamil's arm. A howl, a momentary loosening of grip, broadsword smiting tulwar like the wrath of six gods —then the captain's sword clanged on the floor and he was holding his bloody forearm.
He was also cursing a great many things and people, not least someone unnamed who had misled him about Raihna's willingness to share a bed. He only stopped cursing when Raihna stepped up behind him and rested the point of her sword on the back of his neck.
"As the lady said, it seems there's been a misunderstanding," Conan said soothingly. "No harm to her and little to you. If we leave it—"
Four soldiers pounded up the stairs. Had they been elephants, they could not have given Conan more warning or been clumsier in their attack. He gave ground, letting them crowd together around their captain. Their efforts to both fight Conan and aid the man left Raihna with time to dart into her chamber.
She returned wearing loinguard and mail shirt over arming doublet, with dagger added to sword. Conan laughed. "I thought you would fight as you were. You might have distracted these donkey's sons."
"Slashes in my skin might have distracted me't't" Raihna replied, tossing her head. Then she lunged at the nearest man, driving him away from both captain and comrades.
Conan noted that she seemed to be fighting to defeat without killing. He had hoped she would do this, for killing these fools would be no victory. They might be the only four soldiers loyal enough to their captain or sufficiently well-bribed to come to his aid. If they died, though, their comrades would all be called on to avenge them. Not all of Illyana's spells together could stand off the whole garrison of Fort Zheman.
Conan chose a piece of wall to guard his back, stood before it, and raised his sword. "Ho, children of Fort Zheman. Who wants to be the first to become a man by facing me?"
The shutter swung open and Yakoub peered over the windowsill. Illyana's room lay exposed to his gaze.
So did Illyana. She wore no bedgown, and the blankets had slipped down to her waist. The curves of her breasts were subtle but enticing. They cried out for the hands of a man to roam over them.
Between those breasts shone a great emerald. For a moment, Yakoub wondered at her wearing such a jewel to bed. Then the breath left him in a single gasp as he realized what he beheld. The Jewel of Kurag lay within his grasp, as defenseless as its mistress.
Seemingly as defenseless. Yakoub reminded himself of sorcerous defenses, to quell a rising sense of triumph. He climbed over the windowsill and crouched in the shadowed corner. Illyana did not stir.
From the hall outside rose the uproar spawned by
Captain Shamil's visit to Raihna. If that did not wake Illyana, no sound Yakoub intended to make would do so. He rose to his feet and stalked toward the bed.
Five paces from the bed, a fly seemed to creep into his ear. He shook his head angrily, resisting the urge to slap it. The buzzing grew louder, then faded into silence.
Yakoub looked at the woman on the bed and shook his head. He had been deceived about her wealth. That was no emerald on a gold chain gently rising and falling with her breasts. It was a mere piece of carved glass, cleverly mimicking an emerald to the careless eye. Its chain was only brass, no richer than the pommel of a common sword.
Such a woman would hardly pay well for a night of pleasure. Nor indeed would she have need to. The tales of her being fat and ugly were even less truth than the tales of her wealth. She was past youth, but not past fairness, even beauty. She would hardly be buying men for her bed. Rather would she have them seeking to buy her for theirs!
Best leave now, and seek her again knowing what she was and how slender his hopes were. As slender as the long fingers of the hands that rested lightly on the edge of the blanket, or the fine hair that flowed across the pillow.
The desire to leave with dignity filled Yakoub. He drew a silver ring from a finger of his left hand and placed it next to the green glass. It rolled down between the woman's breasts, to rest on her belly just above the navel. The curves of that belly were also subtle and exquisite.
Boldly, Yakoub rested one hand on the curves of belly. Bending over, he kissed both nipples. They filled his mouth with sweetness, as if they were smeared with honey.
Illyana sighed in her sleep, and for a moment one hand crept across her belly to rest on his. Yakoub knew no fear. Had he seen his death approaching in that instant, he would not have moved from its path.
Another sigh, and the hand rose. Yakoub withdrew five paces, half-expecting to hear the fly again. He hea
rd nothing. In silence he retraced his steps to the window, gripped the rope, and began to climb.
Between them, Conan and Raihna dealt with Shamil's four loyal friends or fellow plotters in as many minutes. All were disarmed and only one wounded.
By then some dozen or more additional soldiers had mounted the stairs. Few were fully sober, fewer still eager to close with Conan and Raihna. Some seemed full of zeal for tending the wounded, at a safe distance from the fight. Most contented themselves with standing about, swords raised and ferocious looks on their bearded faces.
"If black looks could kill, we'd vanish like a puddle in the noon sun," Conan taunted them. "If that's all you can muster, what are we fighting about? If you have more in your arsenal, let's see it!"
This brought a couple of the laggards forward, to be disarmed swiftly and painlessly. Conan spared a glance for the doors to his comrades' chambers. Both remained shut and bolted.
Conan hoped Dessa and Massouf would have the wits to stay inside and Illyana to not only stay inside but cast no spells. He would not see honest soldiers enmeshed in magic without good cause. Besides, the smallest smell of magic about the party would lead to more questions than Conan was happy about answering.
The lack of any will to press the fight was becoming plain. Some of the veterans Conan remembered from the evening's drinking appeared, to lead away the wounded and some of those befriending them. As long as they felt their captain's eye on them, however, a few soldiers were determined to make at least the appearance of fighting.
Conan was now prepared to meet and disarm every one of them if it took until dawn. The wine was entirely out of him. Raihna, on the other hand, had worked herself into a fine fighting passion.
"What do we face here, my friend?" she shouted at Conan. "If this is the best Fort Zheman can do, we'll only die from stumbling over their fallen swords!"
Taunted into rage, a man slashed at Raihna. She twisted clear and his rage blinded him to his open flank. Conan's fist took him behind his right ear and he crashed to the floor.
"This will soon pass beyond a jest," Conan said. "I have no quarrel with any of you save your captain and not much with him. He's been led astray—"
"No woman lies to me without paying!" Shamil roared, waving his bandaged arm.
"Who says otherwise?" Conan asked. "But I wonder. Is it Raihna who lied? Or is it someone else?"
Caught off-guard, Shamil let his face show naked confusion for a moment. He could have no notion that he had been overheard, cursing his deceiver. Then the arm waved more furiously.
"The woman lied, and so did this man! They may not be the only ones, but they're here! Avenge the Fort's honor, you fools, if you can't think of mine!"
The veterans, Conan observed, were altogether unmoved by this argument. The recruits were not. Six of them were pushing forward to within sword's reach of the Cimmerian when a voice roared at the foot of the stairs.
"Ho, turn out the guard! Captain to the walls! Turn out the guard! Captain to the walls!"
A leather-lunged veteran mounted the stairs, still shouting. Behind him ran Under-captain Khezal, sword belted on over an embroidered silk chamber robe that left his arms and chest half-bare.
The scars revealed made Conan think anew of the man, for all his silk clothes and scented beard. It was a wonder he still had the use of his arm, or indeed his life. Conan had seen men die of lesser wounds than the one that scarred Khezal's chest and belly.
"What in the name of Erlik's mighty member—?" Shamil began.
"Captain, there's a messenger outside, from Crimson Springs. He says they were attacked by demons last night. Some of the villagers died. Most fled, and are on their way here."
"Demons?" The captain's voice was a frog's croak.
"You'd best go ask him yourself, Captain. I can settle matters here, at least for now."
Duty, rage, wine, and pain seemed to battle for Captain Shamil. Duty at last carried the field. He stumbled off down the stairs, muttering curses until he was out of hearing.
With a few sharp orders, Khezal emptied the hall of all save himself and Conan. Raihna had returned to her room, to finish clothing herself. The others still slept or hid.
"Will you keep the peace from now on?" Khezal asked.
"It wasn't us who—" Conan began.
"I don't care a bucket of mule piss who began what!" the man snapped. "We're facing either demons or people in fear of them. Either is enough work for one night. I'll not thank anyone who gives me more."
"You'll have no trouble from us," Conan said. "By my lady's honor I swear it."
Khezal laughed. "I'm glad you didn't swear by your—maid's—honor. That little brazen's been eyeing everyone in the garrison, from the captain on down. I'd ask you to keep her leashed too, if there was any way to do so with such a woman."
"When the gods teach me one, you'll be the first I tell," Conan said.
As Khezal vanished down the stairs, Raihna emerged from her chamber, fully clothed and more than fully armed.
"Is that all the satisfaction we have, being asked to keep peace we didn't break?" Her face twisted, as if she had bitten a green fig.
"It's all we'll have tonight," Conan said. "Khezal's not what I thought him. He's not on Shamil's side. That's as good as being on ours. Besides, we do indeed have enough work for one night."
Raihna nodded. "I'll go waken Illyana."
"I'm going down to the gate. I want to hear this tale of demons myself, not what somebody says somebody else said they heard!"
Fourteen
CONAN REACHED THE gate as the messenger from Crimson Springs began the retelling of his nightmare tale. The Cimmerian heard Kemal tell everything, from Bora's foray into the valley of the demons to the flight of the villagers.
"They'll need shelter when they come," Kemal added.
This messenger could be scarcely more than eighteen. A man, though. Conan remembered what he had survived by the time he was eighteen. War, slavery, escape, treachery, and battles with a score of opponents, human and otherwise.
"Shelter? Here? What do you think we are, the Royal Palace of Turan?" Captain Shamil's temper seemed little improved. "Even if we were, no pack of smelly hillmen will overrun—"
Kemal glared. The captain raised a hand to the archers on the wall. Conan sidled to the left, ready to fling the messenger clear of the arrows. He would happily have flung Shamil over the walls like a dead goat from a siege engine. Had he and his charges not so direly needed peace with Fort Zheman and all in it—
"Captain, I'd wager we can bring at least the women and children inside," Khezal said. He must have conjured his armor on to his body by magic, for he was now fully dressed for the field. His helmet and mail were silvered, but both showed an admirable array of patches and dents.
"We have room," Khezal continued. "Or at least we will, once we have formed a column to march upcoun-try. If we guard their women and children, will the men of the village join us? We shall need guides, and all the stout arms we can find."
Conan observed that Khezal said nothing of the garrison being well under strength. His opinion of the man's wisdom and prudence rose further.
"By Mitra and Erlik, I swear to ask." Kemal swallowed. "I cannot swear that all will follow. If Bora lends his voice, however—"
"We don't need to bribe cowards with our own roof and rations!" Shamil shouted. It seemed to Conan that, foiled in his designs against Raihna, the captain sought someone to bully.
Conan was equally determined to defeat him. "Are the other villages in the area in flight as well?" he asked Kemal.
"I rode to none, for Bora's orders were to come here at once. I am sure Bora has sent messengers on foot or on lesser horses than Windmaster to all he thinks in danger."
"Mitra! We are to follow the whims of a stripling, who may be mad or a traitor for all I know. Indeed, isn't he the son of the Rhafi who lies in Aghrapur, suspected of—"
"Rhafi is innocent of everything except quarreling wit
h your greedy louts of soldiers!" Kemal shouted. His hand leaped to the hilt of his knife. Shamil's hand rose to signal the,archers.
Neither hand completed its motion. Conan gripped both wrists and twisted, until he had the complete attention of both men.
"Are you demons in disguise, or what? If there are demons, we're fools to fight among ourselves. If there are none, something besides too much wine is frightening people!"
"Exactly so," Khezal said, like a mother seeking to calm fractious children. A second glance told Conan that the man was balanced and ready to draw his sword, against whoever might need it.
"If all the villages come down, we can pick the best men to march with us. The rest can help garrison the fort, or escort those who travel on to Haruk."
"They'll find scant hospitality in Haruk, after last night's riot," Shamil said. "Scanter here, though, unless we feed them all the rations we'll need for the march." He shrugged. "Do as you wish, Khezal. You speak with my voice. I go to see to my armor and horses."
The captain turned away. Before he could depart, a dulcet voice spoke up.
"Captain, permit me to help you. I know it is not easy to garb oneself with a wounded arm. I have some experience in helping men in such trouble."
It was Dessa, standing between and slightly in front of Illyana and Raihna. Massouf stood behind the women, wearing trousers and a ferocious look. The girl wore an ankle-length robe, but, Conan judged, not a stitch under it. Certainly Shamil could not have been staring at her more intently had she been naked.
Then he smiled. "Thank you—Dessa, is it not? If you will help me arm, I have some wine too fine to jounce about in a saddlebag. We can share it before we march."
"All I can do for you, shall be done." Dessa said. She slipped her arm through Shamil's and they walked off together. Massouf's glare followed them, and the man himself would have done so but for Conan's grip on his arm and Raihna's dagger pointed at his belly.
