by Roland Green
Two of the Transformed were quarreling over a man from Well of Peace. Over the body of a man, rather. No one could live with his bowels laid open and a leg sundered from his trunk.
One of the Transformed brandished the leg like a club. It cracked hard against his opponent's shoulder. The other Transformed howled more in rage than in pain and sought some other part of the victim to use as his own weapon.
A guard ran up to the Transformed, thrusting at them with his spear. Eremius could not hear his words, but saw his mouth working as he doubtless tried to make them hear reason. He looked down at the Jewel, lying on the ground at his feet. Only with the aid of the Jewel could he hope to save that fool of a guard.
In the next moment, the guard's fate passed beyond even a sorcerer's power to alter. The lunge of a taloned hand sent the spear flying. The guard halted, eyes now as wide as his mouth. The second lunge reduced those eyes and the face around them to bloody ruin. The guard had time for only one scream before the other Transformed rent open his chest and began feeding on the heart and lungs laid bare by shattered ribs.
Eremius shrugged. His guards were not so numerous that he could cast them away like worn-out sandals. Neither were they so few that he needed to keep such utter witlings among their ranks. Anyone who had not learned by now to stand clear of the Transformed while they fed needed no spells to render him mindless. He had never possessed a mind to begin with!
The two quarreling Transformed now seemed loyal comrades as they devoured the guard. When they turned back to their previous victim, they seemed almost satiated. All around them, other Transformed were reaching the same state.
Nor was Eremius surprised. The Transformed had fed on most of the men, women, and children of Well of Peace. It was hard to imagine that any had not fed full.
With their bellies packed to repletion, the Transformed were like any great flesh-eater. Their one thought was sleep. Eremius watched them drifting away from the field of carnage in twos and threes, to seek comfortable sleeping places. When he was not watching them, his eyes were on the Jewel at his feet.
He was unsure of the safest course to follow with it, other than to wear it as little as possible and use it still less. Tonight he had used it only to send the sounds of Well of Peace dying across the miles to all those who might hear and be frightened. Then he had laid it down, ring and all, and kept close watch upon it without so much as thinking of using it.
Slowly dawn laid bare the little valley, splashed halfway up either side with blood and littered with reeking fragments. The carrion birds circled high overhead, black against the pallid sky, then plunged. Their cries swiftly drowned out the full-bellied snores of the Transformed.
When the red valley had turned black with the scavengers, Eremius sought his own sleeping place. His last act was to cautiously pick up the Jewel, ring and all, and drop it into a silk pouch. The spells cast by the runes on that pouch should at least give him time to snatch it from his belt and fling it away!
Eremius did not know which will, other than his, was now at work in his Jewel. He would have given his chance of vengeance against Illyana to know.
Sixteen
CONAN UNSLUNG HIS bow and nocked an arrow from the quiver on his back. For his target he chose a vulture feeding on some unidentifiable scraps of carrion. The smears of blood on the vulture's sable breast showed that it had long been feeding here.
Shot from a Turanian horsebow drawn by massive Cimmerian arms, the arrow transfixed the vulture. It squawked, flopped briefly, and died. A few of its mates turned to contemplate its fate, then resumed feeding. Others lacked even the will to notice. They sat as motionless as the blood-spattered stones, too gorged even to croak.
Conan turned away, resisting the urge to empty his quiver. Even the gods could now do no more than avenge the people of the sadly misnamed village, Well of Peace. When the time came for men to avenge them, there would be better targets than vultures for Conan's arrows.
From behind a boulder came the sounds of Bora spewing. Hard upon his silence came booted feet crunching upon the gravel.
Khezal emerged from behind the boulder. "Your lady Illyana says that this was demon work. Has she—arts—to learn this?"
Conan would rather not have answered that question. With a man of Khezal's shrewdness, a lie would be even worse. The death of Well of Peace had taken the matter out of his hands.
"It takes no art to see who must have done this," Conan said, sweeping his arm over the valley. "All the tigers of Vendhya together couldn't have done it. But to answer you—yes, she has certain arts."
"I confess myself hardly surprised," Khezal said. "Well, we shall place the lady in the middle of the column. There can be no safety, but there may be less danger. Also, Raihna can guard Illyana's back when she isn't guarding her own."
"Did Dessa leave your captain still hungry for a woman? Or is he only short of wits?"
Khezal's answer was a silent shrug. Then he said, "If my father still lived, I might long since have arranged matters better at Fort Zheman. With no resources save my own…" He shrugged again.
"Who was your father?"
"Lord Ahlbros."
"Ah."
Ahlbros had been one of the Seventeen Attendants, and in the eyes of many the shrewdest of them. As soldier, diplomat, and provincial governor, he had served Turan long and well. Had he lived a few years longer, he might have discerned the menace of the Cult of Doom and left Conan with no battles to fight against it.
"Your father left a mighty name," Conan said.
"But you are on the road to making one yourself, I judge."
"If I live through tonight, perhaps. And if I do, I will owe much to High Captain Mekreti. In his days as a soldier, my father was Mekreti's favorite pupil."
Conan nodded, his opinion of Khezal rising still higher. Mekreti had been to his generation of Turanian soldiers what Khadjar was to this one, the teacher, mentor, and model for all. Had he not fallen in battle against the Hyrkanians, he would doubtless have commanded the whole army of Turan. Anyone whose father had passed on to him Mekreti's teachings had been well taught indeed.
They looked once more at the scene of carnage, then Conan walked behind the boulder to slap Bora on the shoulder. He found him companioned by a man of Conan's own age, whom the Cimmerian had seen about the fort last night.
"Bora—?"
"My name is Yakoub," the young man said. "How may I serve you, Captain?"
"If Bora is finished—"
"At least until my next meal," Bora said, with a travesty of a smile. "And that next meal may be a long time away."
"Well, then. Bora, return to those of your people who march with the soldiers. Everyone who's not fit to face the demons in a pitched battle, send back to guard the women and children."
"No one will admit that they are other than fit, Conan. Not even the women. Besides, are not some of the Fort's recruits also to be sent back?"
"Turanian soldiers go where they are ordered!" Khezal snapped.
"Yes, but if he is not a fool, their captain will order the weak ones out of the battle. Is that not so?"
Khezal looked upward, as if imploring the gods for patience. Then he cast a less friendly look at Bora, which suddenly dissolved into a grin.
"Trained to arms, you would be a formidable foe. You have an eye for an opponent's weak spots. Yes, the recruits will be going back. But there are too many women and children for my men alone. Each village will need to send some of its fighters with their kin, and some forward with us."
He gripped Bora by both shoulders. "Come, my young friend. If you dispute with me, you will only give Captain Shamil the chance to make mischief and leave your friends and kin weakly defended. Is that your wish?"
"Gods, no!"
"Then it is settled."
"What of me, noble Captains?" Yakoub said.
"Yakoub, if it will not shame you—please go with the women and children," Bora said. "I—my family lives yet. With you watching o
ver them…"
"I understand. It does not please me, but I understand." Yakoub shrugged and turned away.
Conan's eyes followed him. Did his ears lie, or had Yakoub only pretended reluctance to seek safety? Also, Conan now remembered seeing Yakoub wandering about Fort Zheman at dawn after the attempt on Illyana's Jewel. Wandering about, as if astray in his wits.
His wits, or perhaps his memory?
Conan saw no way to answer that, not without revealing more than he could hope to learn. Seen by daylight, however, he noticed that Yakoub showed signs of soot or grease in the creases of his neck and behind his ears.
Men who blacked their faces often found the blacking slow to wash off.
More intriguing still was Yakoub's profile. It was a youthful rendering of High Captain Khadjar's, complete even to the shape of the hose and the cleft chin. Coincidence, or a blood tie? And if a blood tie, how close—if Yakoub was as he seemed, about the age that Khadjar's dead bastard son would have been—
A horseman rode up. "Captain Khezal, we have met the people of Six Trees. Their armed fighters wish to join us." He looked at the ground and seemed reluctant to speak further.
"Captain Shamil resists this, of course?" Khezal said.
"Yes, Captain."
"Well, it seems we have duties too, Captain Conan. Shall we go down and do them?"
Conan followed Khezal. Yakoub was a mystery but not a menace. He could wait. Captain Shamir and his follies were no mystery but a dire menace. They could not.
Yakoub would gladly have run like a fox, to escape the eyes of that Cimmerian wolf. By the utmost effort of will, he held his feet to a brisk walk until he was out of Conan's sight.
Then he ran most of the way back to the improvised camp of the villagers and dog-trotted the rest. On passing the sentries, he went straight to Bora's fam-ily.
"I greet you, Mother Merisa."
"Where is Bora?"
"He will march with the soldiers. All those not fit to fight are returning to Fort—"
"Aiyeee! Is it not enough that the gods have taken my Arima and may take my husband? Will they tempt Bora to his doom also? What will become of us without him?"
Merisa clutched the two youngest children to her as she wailed. She did not weep, however, and in a minute or so was silent, if pale. Yakoub was about to ask where Caraya was, when he saw her returning from the spring with a dripping waterskin.
"Yakoub!" Burdened as she was, she seemed to fly over the ground. Merisa had to snatch the waterskin to safety as Caraya flew into Yakoub's arms.
When they could speak again, they found Merisa regarding them with a mixture of fondness and indignation. Yakoub's heart leaped. Now, if Rhafi would be as kindly disposed toward his suit, when he was free—
"Yakoub, where is Bora?"
"Your brother is so determined to prove himself to the soldiers who took away his father that he will march with them tonight," Merisa said.
Yakoub nodded. "We tossed pebbles, to see who would go and who would not. Bora won the toss." He prayed this lie would not be found out. If the gods ever allowed him to wed Caraya, he would never again tell her a lie.
"A good thing, then, that I went for the water," Caraya said practically. "If the younglings can go to the jakes, we'll be ready to march."
Yakoub kissed Caraya again and blessed the gods. They had sent good blood to both Rhafi and Merisa, and they had bred it into their children. Saving such a man was a gift to the land. Marrying his daughter was a gift to himself.
Eremius raised both staff and Jewel-ring to halt the mounted scout. The man reined in so violently that his mount went back on its haunches. Forefeet pawing the air, the horse screamed shrilly. The messenger sawed desperately at the reins, his face showing the same panic as his mount.
The sorcerer spat. "Is that how you manage a horse? If that is your best, then your mount is only fit to feed the Transformed and you hardly better."
The scout went pale and clutched at the horse's neck, burying his face in its ill-kept mane. The release of the reins seemed to calm the frantic beast. It gave one final whinny, then stood docilely, blowing heavily, head down and foam dripping from its muzzle.
Eremius held the staff under the scout's nose. "I would be grateful if you would tell me what you saw. I do not remember sending you and your comrades out merely to exercise your horses."
"I—ah, Master. The soldiers come on. Soldiers and the fighters of the village."
"How many?"
"Many. More than I could count."
"More than you cared to count?"
"I—Master, no, no—!"
The Jewel blazed to life, flooding the hillside with emerald light dazzling to any eyes not shielded by sorcery. With a scream, the scout clapped both hands over his eyes. The movement unbalanced him, and he toppled from the saddle, to thump down at Eremius's feet.
Eremius contemplated the writhing man and listened to his cries and wails. The man seemed sure he was blinded for life.
Capturing a few horses in the village and saving them from the Transformed now seemed a small victory. The horses could move farther and faster than the Transformed, save when Eremius was using the Jewel to command his creations. The Jewel seemed less self-willed of late, but save when rage overwhelmed him, Eremius continued to be prudent in using it.
As always, however, the human servants he could command with only a single Jewel lacked the resourcefulness, courage, and quick wits heeded for scouting. They were better than using the Jewel promiscuously, wearying the Transformed, or marching in ignorance. No more could be said for them.
Eremius allowed the Jewel's light to die and raised the scout to his feet. "How many, again? More than a thousand?"
"Less."
"Where?"
"Coming up the Salt Valley."
Eremius tried to learn more, but the man was clearly too frightened of blindness to have his wits about him. "By my will, let your sight—returnl"
The man lowered his hands, realized that he could see, and knelt to kiss the hem of Eremius's robe. The sorcerer took a modest pleasure in such subservience. He would a thousand times rather have had Illyana kneeling there, but a wise man took those pleasures that came to him.
At last he allowed the man to rise and lead his horse away. Forming a picture of the countryside in his mind, Eremius considered briefly where to send the Transformed. Victory would not really be enough. The utter destruction of everyone marching against him would be better.
Could he achieve that destruction? The Transformed were neither invulnerable nor invincible. Enough soldiers could stand them off. Still worse might happen, if Illyana (or the Jewels themselves, but he would not think of that) struck back.
The Transformed had to be able to attack together, and retreat together. That meant attacking from one side of the valley—
Bora was kneeling to fill his water bottle at a stream when he heard voices. He plugged the bottle and crept closer, until he recognized the voices.
A moment later, he recognized a conversation surely not meant for his ears. An argument, rather, with Lady Illyana, Shamil, and Khezal arrayed against one another.
"My lady, if you're sure the demons are coming, why don't you use your magic against them?" Shamil was saying.
"I am not complete master of all the arts that would be needed." As if it had been written across the twilight sky, Bora understood that the lady was telling less than she knew.
"You mean you don't have any arts worth more than pissing on the demons, if there are any!" Shamil growled. "All we'd have is a lot of shrieking and dancing that'd scare the men." He contemplated Illyana in a manner Bora recognized even in the fading light. "Of course, if you were to dance naked, it wouldn't matter what else you did."
Bora hoped that Illyana really did have the power to transform Captain Shamil into a pig. From the look on her face, she wished the same. Khezal sought to play peacemaker.
"Captain, if Lady Illyana needs privacy, she needn't stay in
the middle of the column. I can take a troop back a ways, to guard her while she works. Or Captain Conan can take some of the villagers—"
Shamil spat an obscenity. "The villagers would run screaming if Lady Illyana sneezed. And I won't spare any of our men. What do you think this is, the Royal Lancers? We'll set sentries and build watchfires as usual, and that's the end of it. You do anything more without my orders, and you go back to Fort Zheman under arrest."
"As you command, Captain."
Shamil and his second in command walked away, stiff-backed and in opposite directions. Bora was about to creep away, when he heard more people approaching. He lay still, while Conan and Raihna emerged into the glow of the fire. The woman wore short trousers, like a sailor's, that left her splendid legs half-bare. The Cimmerian wore nothing above the waist, in spite of the chill upland air. Illyana, Bora realized, had tears in her eyes. Her voice shook as she gripped Conan by one hand and Raihna by the other.
"Is there nothing we can do about Captain Shamil?"
"Watch our backs and hope the demons will come soon to keep him busy," Conan said. "Anything else is mutiny. Bad enough if we do it, twice as bad if Khezal does it. We split the men, and we're handing the demons' master victory all trussed up and spiced!"
"You listen too much to lawbound men like Khadjar and not enough to—"
"Enough!" The one word from Conan silenced Illyana. After a moment, she nodded.
"Forgive me. I—have you never felt helpless in the face of danger?"
"More often than you, my lady, and I'd wager more helpless too. Mutiny is still mutiny."
"Granted. Now, if I can have my bedding—?"
"Not your tent?" Raihna asked.
"I think not. Tonight a tent is more likely a trap than a protection."
"I'll pass that on to anyone who'll listen," Conan said.
The talk turned away from matters Bora felt he needed to know. Staying low, he crossed the stream, then trotted back to the camp of the villagers.
Bora now led only the men of Crimson Springs, and Gelek of Six Trees had done everything necessary by way of posting sentries and the like. With a clear conscience if an uneasy mind, Bora wrapped himself in his blankets and sought the softest rocks he could find.
