by Roland Green
Wiping sweat and blood from his eyes, Conan gazed about the valley. Everywhere the Jewel-fire or camp-fires let him see clearly, the demons were retreating. They were not running, save when they needed to evade enemies. They were retreating, some limping, others supporting comrades who could not walk, fpr the most part in good order.
Conan turned his eyes back to Illyana. She now lay curled up like a child, eyes closed. After a moment he held out his hand for Raihna's tunic. He knelt beside the sorceress and cautiously thrust a hand toward her. A faint tingle ran from the tips of his fingers to his shoulder, but that was all.
He thrust the hafld farther. The same tingle was his reward. He gripped Illyana's hair with one hand, lifted her head, and pushed the tunic in under it.
Then he had to hold Raihna, while she wept on his shoulder. It was not until life returned to her hand and Khezal's voice sounded from the bottom of the rise that she realized she was half-naked and her mistress wholly so.
"Best think of some clothing, yes?" she said.
"Unless you're hurt—" He fingered the red talon-weal on her left breast. She smiled and pushed his hand away.
"Not hurt at all. Quite fit for whatever your hands do, when we're alone." She swallowed. "As long as my mistress is not hurt. If you can find some clothing while I see to her—"
"Conan, there's a time for fondling wenches and a time for taking counsel!" Khezal shouted.
"Coming, Captain," the Cimmerian replied.
Eremius allowed the Jewel-fire to burn on the hillside until the Transformed were safely clear of the valley. He needed to see the battle out to the end. Had the soldiers the will to pursue, they might put the Transformed in some danger. They might also worsen their own defeat, letting the Transformed turn on small bands of pursuers.
Magic could have pierced any darkness, but such magic meant drawing still more on the Jewel. This seemed unwise. Indeed, Eremius could not avoid wondering if his quest to reunite the Jewels was a fool's undertaking. Their will apart was becoming worrisome. Their will together—
No. He was the master of Jewel-magic. He might not make slaves of the Jewels, but surely he would not allow them to make slaves of him!
Nor did his own fate bear contemplation, if by abandoning his quest to reunite the Jewels he allowed Illyana success in hers. Consummating his desire for her, and avenging her theft of the Jewel, were goals he could abandon without feeling that his life was at an end. It was otherwise, with Illyana's desire for vengeance on him.
The last of the Transformed fled over the crest of the far side of the valley. Eremius cast his mind among them and rejoiced at what he learned.
Fewer than a score of the Transformed were slain. Thrice that many had greater or lesser hurts, but nothing that could not be healed in a few days. They had taken no captives to strengthen their ranks, but they had slain several times their own strength.
He had not won the sort of victory that ends a war at a stroke, but he had made a good beginning to the campaign. With this, Eremius was prepared to be content for one night.
He willed the Jewel-fire to blaze higher yet for a moment, then allowed it to die. Then he set about calling the Jewel to him. He had not quite mastered the art of casting a mighty spell in the form of a polite request to a greater than he. Indeed, it was not an art he had ever expected to need!
He still contrived well enough. The Jewel rode peacefully in his pouch as he hurried down the far side of his hill. He sensed no magic on his trail, but human foes were another matter. If that towering Cimmerian who rode with Illyana were to stalk him, even the Jewel might not be enough!
Yakoub cast his gaze to the right and the left. As cat-eyed as Bora, he could still make out no other enemies flanking the man he faced.
Either the man was a fool who had strayed apart from his comrades or he was the bait in a trap. Yakoub much doubted it was the second. From all he knew of the demon-master's human servants, they lacked the wits for such subtleties.
Yakoub lowered himself over the edge of the little cliff until he hung by his fingers, then dropped. His feet slid on the gravel. The man whirled at the sound, but too late. Yakoub clamped a hand over his mouth and drove the knife up under his guard and his ribs. His heels drummed frantically on the stones for a moment, then he went limp.
The man did have comrades, close enough to hear his fate if not to prevent it. They shouted, and one rose into view. The shouts alerted the other sentries around the villagers' camp. Feet thudded on stony ground and arrows hissed in high arcs, to fall as the gods willed.
Yakoub crouched in such shelter as the cliff offered. He feared the demon-master's men little, the wild shooting of "friendly" archers rather more.
Screams hinted of arrows finding their marks. Scurrying feet interspersed with shouts told Yakoub plainly that the demon-master's men were fleeing. He remained below the cliff until the guards reached him.
The old sergeant in command looked at the body, then grunted approvingly. "Good work, knife against sword."
"It would have been better, if I hadn't had to kill him so soon. That may have warned the rest."
"Maybe. Maybe his friends would've got in close, too. Then half the recruits and all the hillfolk would've been wetting themselves and screaming their heads off. No way to fight a battle. You saved us that. Sure you don't want to take King Yildiz's coin?"
"Not when I'm betrothed."
"Ah well. A wife's an old soldier's comfort and a young soldier's ruin."
They walked back to the camp together, under a sky bleached gray in the east with hints of dawn. Once parted from the sergeant, Yakoub made his way straight through the sleeping villagers to where Bora's family lay.
Like most of the villagers, they were too exhausted to have awakened during the brief fight. Caraya lay on her side, one arm flung over her two younger brothers. Yakoub knelt beside her, and he neither knew nor cared to what gods he prayed when he asked that she be kept safe.
Prayers or not, she was likely to be safer than he was, at least for some days. The Transformed had not swept all before them, that was certain. Otherwise fleeing soldiers would long since have awakened the camp. As they were, Eremius's human witlings could not stop the march of a column of ants. The villagers would have a safe journey to Fort Zheman.
Yakoub, son of Khadjar, on the other hand, would be marching in the opposite direction. If he survived the march, he would then have to persuade Eremius that he was the man to lead the human fighters and turn them into soldiers.
In silence, he allowed himself another prayer, that
Eremius might be easier to persuade than the normal run of sorcerers. Then he kissed Caraya, forcing himself not to take her in his arms. With eyes stinging from more than the dawn breeze, he rose and turned his face toward the mountains.
It took the rest of the night to put the camp in order, count the dead, care for the wounded, and scout the surrounding hills. Only when all the scouts brought back the same report, of a land empty of demons if not of their traces, did Khezal call his council of war.
"I'd say we won a victory, if we hadn't lost three to their one," he said. "Perhaps they carried off more dead and hurt, perhaps not. Also, I'd wager that was a retreat ordered by whoever gives those monsters orders, not being driven off."
"You see clearly, Captain," Illyana said. She was paler than Conan cared to see, and from time to time a spasm would shake her body. Her voice was steady as she continued. "The orders were given, because of the fight we gave the Transformed. Had the full powers of our enemy been unleashed, we could not have done so well."
"Then we have you to thank for a fair number of lives, if you set bounds on the master of the Transformed."
Illyana shuddered. "Forgive me, Captain, but I cannot accept that praise. I did what I could, and I know I had some effect. Yet I could not use all the strength of my Jewel. We owe our lives in great part to the fact that neither could Eremius."
Khezal looked at the ground as if he expected
monsters to erupt from it at any moment. Then he stared hard at Illyana. "I feel I am being told other than the truth. That is not well done."
"There are matters you and your soldiers could not understand without—" Raihna began. Conan laid a hand heavily upon her shoulder and Khezal glared. Between them she fell silent.
"Captain, I do not know as much as I might in a day or two," Illyana said. "When I know it, or learn that I shall not know it, then will be the time for us to speak frankly. I shall hold nothing back. By the Seven Shrines and the bones of Pulaq I swear it."
"A cursed lot of good your hesitation will do us if the Transformed attack again!"
"They will not, if we return to Fort Zheman."
"Retreat with our tails between our legs! Who's the captain here, Lady Illyana? I don't remember seeing your commission from King Yildiz—"
"You may remember seeing one from a certain Lord Mishrak," Conan growled. "Or did some buffet on the head last night take your memory?"
The silence gave Conan time to reach for his sword, time to fear he might need to draw it. Then all Khezal's breath left him in a gusty sigh.
"Don't tell anyone, but I've been thinking of returning to the Fort also. There are too cursed many villagers to guard in the open field. Behind walls, at least those monsters will have to climb to come at us!"
Eighteen
THE TOWER OF Fort Zheman had thrust itself above the horizon, when Bora rode up on Windmaster.
Raihna patted the gray's neck. "A fine steed. I am glad he is in fettle again. Also, that he still has a master worthy of him."
All were silent for a moment. Kemal had survived the battle, but with wounds that took his life before dawn. He had some measure of good fortune; he was senseless and felt no pain.
"Thank you, Raihna," Bora said. "But I did not ride up here to seek praise for Windmaster. I seek Yakoub. He seems to have vanished."
Conan and Raihna exchanged looks that did not include Illyana. This was no matter for her, they had both agreed. Moreover, she was in the saddle at all by sheer force of will. The less she was troubled without cause, the better. "I thought you did not much care for him," Conan said.
"I did not and I do not," Bora replied. "My sister Caraya thinks otherwise."
"You're the head of the family, until your father is freed," Conan said. "I thought that gave you the right to say yea or nay to anyone's courting your sister."
Bora laughed harshly. "You do not know Caraya. She can smite as heavily with her tongue as Mistress Raihna can with her blades." He frowned. "Also, Yakoub has labored to secure my father's release. He has not yet succeeded, but who knows if this is his fault?"
"You have a great sense of justice in you, Bora," Raihna said. "The gods love such."
"Best pray the gods keep you alive long enough to practice that justice," Conan said. "And spare a prayer or two for Yakoub as well. He may have left the villagers once the demon master's scouts were driven off, hoping to join the soldiers. If he met some of those scouts on the road—well, I am sure the scouts are fewer, but I'd not wager on your sister marrying Yakoub."
"Yes, and that means you do not ride about alone, either," Raihna said. "We have some cheese and bread, if you have not eaten."
Bora devoured half a cheese, then took his place in the column behind Raihna. Conan mused on the mystery of Yakoub. Could he really be what his face hinted, Khadjar's bastard son? If so, one mystery lay behind his being alive, another behind what he was doing. Best if honest folk like Bora and Caraya kept well clear of either mystery, particularly with a father already arrested as a suspected rebel.
Best also to say nothing of that to Bora. And best of all for Conan not to think too much on the matter himself. If the mystery was deep enough for High Captain Khadjar to be part of it—
Very surely, best to think of other matters, such as how to make some of the Powder of Zayan and how to contrive a night with Raihna.
Again Yakoub lowered himself down a small cliff. This time he landed silently, on firm ground, behind those he sought. He also left his knife and sword sheathed and held out his empty hands.
"Hssst! Servants of the master."
Had he stabbed them, the two scouts could not have whirled faster. Both drew their swords, but did not advance. Instead they stood in silence, gape-jawed and dull-eyed.
The silence went on so long that Yakoub half-expected to see the sun touching the western horizon. At last one of the men spoke. His words were slurred and indistinct, as though he spoke with a mouthful of nutmeats.
"We serve the master. You do not."
"I wish to serve him."
This brought on another long silence. Yakoub began to consider whether decent fighting men could be made out of such dullards. Perhaps they were only tired, or some had more wits than others?
"Show us a sign," one said at last.
What they would take as a sign, Yakoub could only guess. It hardly mattered, as he had only one thing that might serve. He opened the secret pouch in his belt and held out the ring with his father's seal.
The scout who had spoken took the ring, with such fumbling hands that Yakoub half-expected him to drop it. At last he returned it to Yakoub.
"We do not know this sign."
"Your master will know it."
"Our master is not here."
"Is there some reason I cannot go to him?"
"We would have to lead you."
"Is that forbidden?" Yakoub knew that to shout at these wretches would gain little and might lose much. He still felt his patience being rubbed thin.
The two scouts looked at each other. At last they shook their heads together, like two puppets with the same master.
"It is not forbidden."
"Then I ask you, in the name of the master's victory, to take me to him."
Yet another long silence followed. This time it ended without words. The two scouts grunted and together turned away eastward, beckoning Yakoub to follow.
Khezal pushed himself back from the table and began to pace up and down the chamber. Outside, the villagers camped in Fort Zheman had begun to lose their fear and find their tongues. Women quarreled over a place in the line for water, children shrieked in delight or wailed for their parents, dogs barked and howled.
"Thank the gods we were able to keep what livestock they brought outside," Khezal said. He strode to the window and slammed the shutter. "They may not survive the coming of the de—the Transformed. But this is a fort I have to defend, not the Royal Menagerie!
"I'll have to send them on to Haruk when I've called in all the outpost garrisons. There won't be room and we'd be courting fevers and fluxes. The gods have spared us that, so far."
"What does Mughra Khan say to all this?" Illyana asked. "Not that I complain, you understand. You are a gift from the gods, compared to Captain Shamil."
Khezal's face twisted. "I have looked into Shamil's letters. He was so deep in the toils of those who plot with Lord Houma, the gods themselves could not have pulled him out! Hie Transformed gave him a more honorable end than he deserved.
"As for Mughra Khan, anything he says will be said after I have done what I know is needed. I have sent the messengers to the outposts this very afternoon. A messenger to Mughra Khan will follow tomorrow."
Conan laughed. "I'd wager you'll one day command an army, Khezal. If not, then Turan's wasting a good man."
"I could do with less praise and more weapons fit to stand against magic," Khezal said. "But the Powder of Zayan will be better than nothing. How long will Lady Illyana need, to make enough of it?"
"I will need two days, to enspell sufficient bowls for mixing the Powder," Illyana said. "Once the bowls are fit, I must then mix the first bowlful and test it. If that proves fit, I can leave matters in other hands for a month or more. I would urge Maryam, the niece of Ivram, as the best hands."
"So you cast the spells on the cooking pots, not on the food?" Khezal said.
"Well put. The spell of the Powder i
s little-known, otherwise we would have much less peril from evil magic. Also, to place it upon the bowls will call less heavily upon the Jewel."
"What if it doesn't play at all?" Conan put in. The four in the chamber had no secrets, including the self-will of the Jewels.
"Then Fort Zheman must trust to the valor of its men under the leadership of Captain Khezal," Raihna said.
"Remember what I said about less praise and more weapons?" Khezal shrugged. "How long do you need after the Powder is done, before you march into the mountains?"
"A day for the Jewel to regain its strength, another day for gathering mounts and supplies," Illyana said.
"Tell me what you will need and I will see about gathering it now," Khezal said. "The faster you move, the better your chances of catching Eremius before he returns to his stronghold. If that makes any difference in this kind of war?"
"It does. Thank you, Captain."
"I'm also sending ten picked veterans with you. Yes, I know the smaller the party, the less chance of discovery. Once you reach the mountains, you can order them to stay behind. But Eremius's scouts, bandits, starving villagers, wild animals—you need guarding against all of these."
"We do?" Conan growled.
"You do, and more of it than even a Cimmerian can offer," Khezal said. He rang a bell on the table. From outside the door came a girl's voice.
"Yes, Captain?"
"Wine and four cups. Then go heat me a bath, with enough water for two."
"At your pleasure, Captain."
This time Conan recognized the voice as Dessa's. He looked a question at Khezal. The man grinned.
"I've inherited Shamil's responsibilities. Why shouldn't I inherit a few of his comforts as well?"
Bora shifted the sack of charcoal to his left arm and knocked on the door.
"Maryam, it is Bora. I have the charcoal."
The sound of bare feet gave way to a bolt being drawn. Maryam peered out. She wore only a chamber robe of scarlet silk, belted lightly about her with a gold-tasseled cord. The color went well with her dark skin, Bora noticed. He also noticed how much of that skin was revealed. He knew he should not savor such an immodest display, but found it hard to turn his eyes away.
