Conan The Valiant

by Roland Green

  "You filthy panderers," Massouf hissed, struggling vainly to escape the Cimmerian's iron grip.

  "We send Dessa nowhere she does not gladly go," Raihna replied.

  Conan nodded. "Use your wits and not your tool, Massouf. The gods made Dessa a free-spirited wench. You won't make her a .quiet little wife. There's a woman somewhere fit for that, if you really want her. Spend your time seeking her, not trying to change Dessa."

  Massouf shook himself free and stalked off, muttering curses but at least traveling in the opposite direction to Dessa and Shamil. Khezal looked after him.

  "I'll have a watch kept on that young man," he said. Conan grinned. Khezal was probably a year or more younger than Massouf, but seemed old enough to be his father. "Best you keep a watch on your own backs, too. At least until Captain Shamil's been so well bedded he'll not be thinking of women for a while."

  "Dessa's the one to do that," Raihna said.

  "I believe you," Khezal said. "She puts me in mind of a younger Pyla."

  "You know Pyla?" Conan exclaimed.

  "Did she never speak of the young officer she spent a week with, last year?" Khezal's scarred chest seemed to swell with pride and pleasurable memory.

  "No. She's never been one to bed and brag. But if she endured your company for a week—" Conan made a parody of the court bow.

  Khezal nodded, his smile fading. He stepped closer to Conan and said, voice pitched barely above a whisper, "In truth—what are you? I'll not say you told us tales without reason, but…"

  "Raihna?" Conan said.

  The swordswoman nodded and drew from between her breasts the coin badge of Mishrak's service. Khezal studied it for a moment, then nodded again, his face still more sober.

  "As well you told us tales. Nor will I tell the captain, unless it's life or death. I've heard things of him—no, I'll hold my peace on that, too, unless it's life or death. But I would ask you to give whatever help you can, all three of you. We're scantily supplied with leaders even for the trained men. With the recruits and Mitra knows how many villagers thrown in…"

  "We'll help," Conan said. "I've served—the owner of that coin—just long enough to want a good fight, sword in hand!"

  By night, stonefire could be turned to any color, none, or a hideous travesty of a rainbow. It all depended on the spell.

  Eremius chose a spell that would make the stonefire in Winterhome not only colorless but invisible. Until he felt the heat, anyone who wandered close would have no idea what he faced. If he drew back in time and fled, he would flee with his mind reeling with fear and run until his body reeled with exhaustion.

  The more fear, the better. Too many villagers had already fled beyond the reach of the Transformed. Only fear would keep them fleeing, until they brought the garrison of Fort Zheman out to destruction. Then the land would be defenseless and the villagers could be rounded up at leisure. Their fear would feed what the Transformed used in place of souls, before their flesh fed the Transformed's hunger.

  Eremius held his staff at waist height and swept it in a half-circle, across the whole front of the village. Five times he stopped the movement. Each time, a globule of stonefire leaped from its head, soared across the hillside, and plunged into the village. Each globule glowed briefly, then settled down to invisibly devour all in its path.

  By dawn Winterhome would be smoking rubble like Crimson Spring. So would the other three villages denuded of their inhabitants by fear of the Transformed.

  Eremius turned and snapped his fingers at his Jewel-bearer. The prisoner had knelt throughout the firecasting, eyes wandering mindlessly. Nor had Eremius called on the power of the Jewel. He had mastered stonefire years before he had touched either of the Jewels of Kurag.

  The prisoner now lurched to his feet. Then his eyes rolled up in his head and he began to toss his arms and flap his hands. Like some impossibly clumsy bird, he actually rose a finger's breadth into the air. Eremius raised his staff in front of him and hastily gave ground.

  The Jewel-bearer rose higher. Smoke boiled from either edge of the great arm ring. The stench of burning flesh assaulted Eremius. Only iron will kept him from spewing like a woman newly with child.

  The Jewel-bearer now floated a man's height above the ground. His mouth gaped so wide that it seemed his jaws could hardly remain in their sockets. His eyes had turned the color of sour milk.

  Suddenly his body arched, lungs and chest and mouth together hurled out a single gurgling scream, and the Jewel-ring burned through the arm holding it. It clattered to the rocky ground. Eremius's heart seemed to leap from his breast in the moment before he saw that the Jewel was intact. He knelt and hooked the ring clear of danger with his staff.

  Barely had he done this when the Jewel-bearer crashed to the ground. He sprawled as limp as an eel, every bone in his body save for the severed arm seemingly broken. Eremius hastily left off his prodding of the Jewel-ring and once more gave ground.

  Only when he saw the man still dead and the Jewel still intact did he approach either. Not for some minutes after that did he venture to pick up the Jewel. Some minutes after that, he found courage to call his human servants to attend.

  As they scrambled up the hill toward him, he contemplated the Jewel glowing on the ground at his feet. All sorcerers who knew of the Jewels also knew the tales of what they had seemingly done (and whom they had seemingly slain) of their own will.

  Eremius was no exception. Until tonight, like most sorcerers, he had also believed the tales were mostly that. Now he wondered. Had Illyana contrived the fate of the Jewel-bearer, he would have sensed her efforts, perhaps defeated them. He had sensed nothing.

  What did soldiers do, when they found their swords coming alive in their hands? Eremius doubted that even such as Khadjar would be equal to that question.

  By dawn Conan had finished his work. The last pack mule had been loaded with ration bread and salt pork and led to the corral just beyond the north gate.

  The Cimmerian broke his fast with wine and a stew of onions and smoked goat's meat. Time enough to burden his belly with field rations! As he poured a second cup of wine, he considered how little he would have cared for his present work a few years ago.

  Cimmerian war bands could live off the land for a month. Conan had despised the men of civilized lands for needing to bring food with them. Khadjar and experience alike had taught him the error of that.

  Illyana took shape out of the grayness, so subtly that for a moment Conan wondered if she'd come by magic. At the look on his face, she laughed softly.

  "Fear not, Conan. I use no arts where they might put men in fear. I would ask you, though—have you seen anyone wandering about as if mazed in his wits? Besides Captain Shamil?"

  "Ha! That's nothing to what he'll be, when Dessa lets him out of bed!" Conan frowned. "Not that I can remember. But I've had other work at hand, and in the dark it's enough to tell man from woman!"

  "Ah well. You and Raihna were the only ones I could ask, except perhaps Khezal. Raihna had seen no one."

  Conan sensed an explanation forthcoming, if he would give Illyana time to find the words for it. He hoped she would be swift. The column had to be on the road before midmorning, to have the smallest hope of reaching the villagers before the demons did.

  "You are right to suspect a plot last night. Someone sought to enter my chamber and steal the Jewel."

  "None of us heard any sound."

  "You were not expected to. I contrived a spell in the Jewel, to make whoever entered my chamber lose all memory of why he came. He might not have regained all his wits yet. He was confused enough to leave this ring."

  She held out a ring of finely-wrought silver, but

  Conan had never seen it on the hand of anyone in the fort. He shook his head.

  "Why not contrive a spell to kill or stun him?"

  "Conan, I think as do you and Raihna. The fewer who know what I truly am, the better. Not even Khezal has been told, has he?"

  "No. But I'd not
wager a cup of poor wine on his remaining ignorant. That's a very long-headed man we'll have leading us."

  "Two long-headed men, Conan. If Khezal allows you to do all you can, as he must if he's no fool."

  Conan smiled politely at the flattery, but no more. He sensed things still unspoken, and perhaps best left so. Except that if you went ignorant into battle you might as well cut your throat beforehand and save your enemies the trouble—

  "I did work another spell. It was to make the Jewel hold a picture of who sought to steal it. From that picture, I could have recognized the man at a glance."

  "That would have meant revealing your powers, but I suppose one less enemy is never a bad thing. Am I to take it that the spell didn't work?"

  Illyana colored slightly. "It did not. I thought I was past making such a foolish mistake. I believe I am. Yet the spell was not wrought as I intended. Was it my failure—or the Jewel's own will?"

  The dawn sky seemed to darken and the dawn wind grow cold. No gesture of aversion Conan could think of seemed adequate. He emptied his cup at a gulp, poured it full again, and held it out to Illyana. After a moment, she took it. Although she only seemed to sip, when she handed the cup back it was two-thirds empty.

  The wine gave more color to Illyana's cheeks. It also seemed to strengthen her own will, to say no more of what might be happening to her Jewel—still less that held by Eremius.

  Conan set the wine cup down and rose. If Illyana wished to say no more, it was not a whim. He would honor her judgment that far.

  For no sorcerer before her would he have done this. Illyana, though, had her wits about her more than any other sorcerer, besides a true sense of honor.

  It was still a cold thought to take to war, that sorcerers might not truly be masters of all the magic they called to their service.

  Fifteen

  IN THE TWILIGHT behind Bora, a child wailed. Was it the same one he had rescued in the village, after her parents fled in panic? Bora was too weary to care.

  Indeed, he was now too weary to flee even if being the new leader of his village had not chained him like an ox to a millstone. It was a burden to put one foot in front of another swiftly enough to stay ahead of the women and children.

  To slough off that burden, to sit upon a rock and watch the village file past—he was almost ready to pray for it. Almost. Each time he was ready for that prayer, he thought of the whispers of the villagers. Bora knew he was one of those men who became heroes because they feared whispers behind them more than swords and bows in front.

  The twilight crept up from the valley, deepening from blue to purple. Even finding good footing would be hard work before long, Yet they could not stop. With darkness, the demons' master might unleash them again. Even now they could be on the prowl along the villagers' trail, thirsting for blood—

  "Hoaaa! Who approaches?"

  The shout came from the archer sent ahead to strengthen the scouts. The other archers of the village marched in the rear, where the demons were most likely to attack.

  Bora was loading his sling when the reply came, in an unexpectedly familiar voice.

  "Kemal here. I'm with soldiers from Fort Zheman. You're safe!"

  Anything else Kemal said was lost in the cheers and sobs of the villagers. Bora himself would have danced, had he possessed the strength. He had just wit enough to walk, not run, down the path to Kemal.

  His friend sat astride a strange horse. "Where's Windmaster?" was Bora's first question.

  "He was too blown to make the return journey. Captain Conan procured him a stall and fodder, and a new mount for me."

  Bora saw that his friend was not alone. A massive dark-haired man sat astride a cavalry mount, and behind him a fair-haired woman in male dress, with a warrior's array of weapons openly displayed. Beyond them, the hoof-falls and blowing of horses told of at least part of a troop at hand.

  Relief washed over Bora like a warm bath, leaving him light-headed and for a moment wearier still. Then he gathered from somewhere the strength to speak.

  "I thank you, Captain Conan."

  The big man dismounted with catlike grace and faced Bora. "Save your thanks until we're well clear of this hill. Can your people march another mile to water? Have they left anyone behind on the road? How many armed men do you have?"

  "I—"

  "Curse you, man! If you're leading them, it's your duty to know these things!"

  "Conan, be easy with him," the woman said. "This is his first battle, and against no human foe. You've no call to behave like your chief Khadjar with a drunken recruit!"

  Even in the twilight, Bora recognized the looks passing between Conan and the woman as those between bedmates. He blessed the woman for giving him at least a chance not to make a fool of himself. Captain Qonan could hardly be more than five or six years older than Bora, and his accent showed him no Turanian. Bora still felt a greater desire to win the approval of this man than he had felt with any other, save his father Rhafi.

  "We certainly will march on to water. We have few waterskins and those mostly empty. We also need food. At sunset, all those who left the village last night were still with us. Above forty of our men and some half-score women are armed. Only a dozen or so have bows or good swords."

  Conan jerked his head in what Bora hoped was a nod of approval. "Good. Then we won't be having to send patrols up the hills into the demons' jaws, to save your laggards. What of the other villages in your land?"

  "What—oh, will they need rescuing?"

  "Of course!" The captain bit off something surely impolite.

  "Here." The woman handed Bora a waterskin. The water was cool with evaporation and pungent with unknown herbs. Bora felt the dust in his mouth dissolve and the fog blow from his head.

  "Bless you, my lady."

  "I am hardly a lady. Calling me Raihna the Bossonian will be enough. My Cimmerian friend is plain-spoken but right. We need to know the fate of the other villages."

  Water or herbs or both seemed to be filling Bora with new strength, with tiny thunderbolts striking each limb in turn. "I sent messengers to all the villages I thought within reach. Three returned, three did not"

  "What of the demons?" The way the man said the word, he seemed to know that they were something quite different.

  "They burned our village with their magic. We saw the smoke. They did not pursue us. That proves little about the other villages, though. We would have been on the road many hours before they were."

  "If they believed your messengers at all, before it was too late," Conan said. His lips curled in a smile that to Bora seemed better suited to the face of a demon.

  Then the smile warmed. "Bora, you've done well. I'll say so, and I'll say it where I'll be heard."

  "Will you speak for my father Rhafi, against those who accused him of rebellion? Our carpenter Yakoub went to Aghrapur to speak also, but he has not yet returned."

  "What did your father do? Or was it something he left undone?"

  Bora retold the tale briefly. The Cimmerian listened, with the air of someone smelling a midden-pit. Then he looked at the Bossonian woman. She seemed to be smelling the same pit.

  "Our friend Captain Shamil has a real art of charming people," she said. "Bora, can you ride?"

  He wanted to say "Of course." Prudence changed his words to, "If the horse is gentle enough."

  "I think you will find Morning Dew's gait pleasing. Mount and ride among your people, urging them onward. Captain Conan and I will post our men here until you have passed, then join your rearguard."

  "Why can't you join them now?" Bora knew he was nearly whining, but could not help himself.

  Conan stared hard at him. Perhaps it was meant to be only a curious look, but the Cimmerian's eyes were an unearthly shade of ice-blue. Bora had never imagined, let alone seen, eyes of such a shade. Their regard made him feel about ten years old, standing before his father ready for a whipping.

  "Simple enough, Bora," the' captain said at last. "There's scarce
ly room on this trail for your people, let alone them and my troop. Would you rather have them taking to the fields in the dark, or trampled by our horses?"

  "Forgive me, Captain. As you said, it is my first battle. I still don't know why the gods chose me, but—"

  "If the gods want to answer our questions, they'll do it in their own good time. Meanwhile, Raihna's offered you a horse. Are you fit to ride?"

  Bora stretched and twisted. All his limbs pained him, but each had enough life to make riding a possibility if not a pleasure.

  "If I am not, we shall learn soon enough." He reached for the reins the Bossonian woman held out to him.

  As Bora's fingers touched the leather, he stopped as if conjured into stone. Borne by the night wind and perhaps more, a nightmare chorus of screams tore at his ears.

  Screams, from the throats of men, women and children in mortal agony. Screams—and the howls of the demons.

  Bora bit his lip until he tasted blood, to keep from screaming himself.

  Conan and Raihna might also have been statues guarding the gates of a temple. When they finally spoke, however, their words held a calm courage that seemed to flow out of them like water and wash away Bora's fear.

  These folk could be put to death. They could not be put in fear. Bora started to thank the gods for sending them. Conan had to shake him to gain his ear.

  "I said, the demons must have overtaken a band of your neighbors! Either they were closer than we thought, or someone is—sending—the sounds of that battle to us. Raihna has a—friend—who can learn which."

  "With the help of the gods, yes. I'm sorry, Bora, but I'll have to ask for my horse back."

  Without further words or touching the stirrups, Raihna was in the saddle. In another moment she had turned her mount and was trotting off downhill.

  "Bora," Conan said. "Get your people off this trail. All except the rearguard. My men are coming up. Move, by Erlik's beard!"

  Bora was already striding back uphill. He would have hung by his fingers from the top of a cliff, if it offered the smallest chance of shutting out those screams.