Conan the Triumphant

by Robert Jordan

  She kicked the door shut with her heel and waited for him to speak. She did not sheath her blade.

  “You are not what I expected, girl,” he said finally. His dark eyes caressed the curves beneath her snug-fitting jerkin and breeches. “You are quite beautiful.”

  “And you’ve made your first mistake.” There was danger in her voice, though the man did not seem to realize it. “No man calls me girl. I’ll have the answers to some questions before we go further. Your message came to me through ways I thought known only to a trusted few. How did you come to know of them? Who are you, and why would you send me fifty golds, not knowing if I’d come or not?” For that was the amount that had accompanied the message.

  “Yet you did come,” he said, radiating cool confidence. From beneath his surcoat he produced two bulging leather purses and tossed them to the table. They clinked as they landed. “And here are a hundred more pieces of gold, if you will undertake a commission for me, with as many to follow at its completion.”

  Her tone hardened. “My questions.”

  “Regrettably I cannot answer,” he said smoothly. “You need have no fear of being seized, my inquisitive beauty. I came alone, as I said I would. There are no men in the trees about us.”

  “Except my own,” she said, and was pleased to see surprise flicker across his face.

  He recovered his aplomb quickly. “But that is to be expected. When I heard of a bandit band led by a … a woman, I knew they must be very good indeed to long survive. You see, you’re becoming famous. Put up your blade. Eastern, is it not? Are you from the east, my pretty brigand? You have not the coloring of the eastern beauties I have known, though you are as lovely as all of them together.”

  His smile deepened, a smile she was sure sent he expected to send tingles through every woman favored with it. And likely had his expectations met, she admitted. She also knew that only her danger at his manner—girl, indeed! My pretty brigand. Ha!—armored her against it. She held hard to that anger, prodded at it. She did, however, sheathe her sword.

  “I’ll not tell you my history,” she growled, “when I get not even your name in return. At least you can tell me what I am to do for these two hundred gold pieces.”

  His smoldering-eyed study of her did not end, but at least it abated. “Baron Inaros is withdrawing from his keep to his palace in Ianthe. He is not involved in the current struggles. Rather, he is afraid of them. ’Tis the reason for his move, seeking the safety of the capital. His guards will be few in number, not enough to trouble a bold band of brigands. For the two hundred you will bring me his library, which he brings with him in two carts. And of course you may keep anything else you take from his party.”

  “A library!” Karela burst out. “Why would you pay two hundred pieces of gold, two hundred and fifty, in truth, for a collection of dusty scrolls?”

  “Let us simply say I am a collector of rarities, and that there are works in Inaros’ possession I am willing to pay that price for.”

  Karela almost laughed. This man as a collector of rare parchments was one thing she would not believe. But there was no profit in calling him liar. “Very well,” she said, “but I will have two hundred gold pieces upon delivery of these, ah, rarities.” It was her turn to smile. “Are you willing to pay that price?”

  He nodded slowly, once more eyeing her up and down. “I could almost consider it cheap, though you’d best not try to press me too far, or I may take my commission to another who, if not so pretty, is also not so greedy. Now let us seal the bargain.”

  “What,” she began, but before she could finish he took a quick step and seized her. Roughly he crushed her against him; she could not free an arm enough to draw her sword.

  “I have a special way of sealing pacts with women,” he chuckled. “Struggle if you wish, but you will enjoy it before ’tis done.” Suddenly he froze at the sharp prick of her dagger point against his neck.

  “I should slit your throat,” she hissed, “like the pig you are. Back away from me. Slowly.”

  Obediently he stepped backwards, his face a frozen mask of rage. As soon as he was clear of her dagger stroke, his hand went to his sword.

  She flipped the dagger, catching it by the point. “Will you wager your life that I cannot put this in your eye?” His hand fell back to his side.

  Desperately Karela fought her own desire to kill him. He deserved it clearly, to her thinking, but how could she keep it secret that she had slain a man come to hire her? Such things never remained buried long. All who heard the tale would think she had done it for the coins on the table, and there would be no more offers of gold.

  “You codless spawn of a diseased camel!” she spat in frustration. “But recently I saw a figure that reminds me of you. An ugly thing to curdle any woman’s blood, as you are. All horns and fangs, with twice as much manhood as any man, and like to think with that manhood, as you do, were it alive. If you have any manhood.”

  He had gone very still as she spoke, anger draining from his face, and there was barely contained excitement in his voice as he spoke. “This figure? How many horns did it have? How many eyes? Was it shaped otherwise like a man?”

  Karela stared at him in amazement. Was this some attempt to draw her off guard, it was most surely a strange one. “What interest can you have in it?”

  “More than you can possibly know. Speak, woman!”

  “It was like a man,” she said slowly, “except that it had too many fingers and toes, and claws on all of them. There were four horns, and three eyes. And a reek of evil as strong as yours.”

  His smile returned, but not for her this time. To her surprise it was a smile of triumph. “Forget Inaros,” he said. “Bring me that figure, and I will give you five hundred pieces of gold.”

  “Think you I’d still take your gold,” she said incredulously, “after this?”

  “I think you’d take five hundred pieces of it if it came from Erlik himself. Think, woman. Five hundred!”

  Karela hesitated. It was a tempting amount. And to think she could earn it at the Cimmerian’s expense made it more so. But to deal with this one. “Done,” she was surprised to hear herself say. “How shall we meet again, when I have the thing?”

  He tugged off his brilliant red surcoat, revealing gilded armor beneath. “Have a man wearing this over his tunic stand before the main gate of the royal palace when the sun is at its zenith, and on that day at dusk I will come to this hut with the gold.”

  “Done,” Karela said again. “I will leave you, now, and I advise you to wait the time it takes to count one thousand—an you can count—before following, else you will discover whether that pretty armor will avail you against crossbow bolts.” With that she backed from the hut, and scrambled into her saddle.

  As she rode into the forest she found that she almost felt like singing. Five hundred pieces of gold and another stroke against the Cimmerian, if a small one. But there would be greater, the first already under way. This time it would be Conan who was forced to flee, not her. He would flee, or he would die.

  Synelle paced the floor of her sleeping chamber like a caged panther, hating her agitation yet unable to quell it. Silver lamps lit the room against the night at the windows, lending a sheen to the gossamer hangings about her bed. Her pale hair hung damp with sweat, though the night was cool. Normally she guarded her exotic beauty jealously, never allowing a curl to be out of place or the slightest smudging of rouge even when she was alone, but now turmoil filled her to the exclusion of all else.

  For the hundreth time she stopped before a mirror and examined her full, sensuous lips. They looked no different than they always had, but they felt swollen. With a snarl of rage she resumed her pacing, her long robe of canescent silk clinging to every curve of her body. She was aware of every particle of the sleek gray material sliding on the smoothness of her skin.

  Ever since that … that barbarian had kissed her she had been like this. She could not stop thinking about him. Tall, with sh
oulders like a bull and eyes like a winter lake. A crude, unmannered lout. Wild and untamed, like a lion, with arms that could crush a woman in his embrace. She felt like bubbling honey inside. She could not sleep; already this night she had tossed for hours in torment, filled to the brim with feelings she had never before experienced.

  Why had she even taken the Free-Company in service? Only to spite Antimides, as had always given her pleasure in the past. There was no reason to keep it, except that Antimides would certainly think he had won in some fashion if she dismissed them. And there was the barbarian.

  Desperately she tried to force her mind away from Conan. “I will not give myself to him!” she cried. “Not to any man! Never!”

  There were other things to think about. There had to be. The women. Yes. Of the bronze image of Al’Kiir, she was certain now. The men Taramenon had sent after Galbro would bring it to her. But she needed a woman for the rite, and not any woman would do. This woman must be beautiful above all others about her, proud to the point of fierceness. Proud women there were, but plain or old or disqualified on a score of other points. Beautiful women abounded, and some had pride, but where was the fierceness? Without exception they would tremble at a man’s anger, give way to his will eventually, for all they might resist a time.

  Why did they have to be so? Yet she could understand a little now. What woman could resist a man like the barbarian. Him again! She pounded a small fist on her sleek thigh in frustration. Why did he continually invade her thoughts?

  Suddenly her face firmed with determination. She strode to a marble-topped table against the tapestried wall, touched her fingers to a twist of parchment there. Within were three long, black, silky hairs, left on her robe when the barbarian … . Her hand trembled. She could not think of that now; her mind must be clear. It must be.

  Why did it have to be him? Why not Taramenon? Because he had never affected her as Conan did? Because she had toyed with him so long that only the pleasure of toying remained?

  “It will be Conan,” she whispered. “But it will be as I wish.” Her hand closed on the parchment, and she swept from the room.

  Slaves, scrubbing floors in the hours when their mistress was not usually about, scrambled from her path, pressing their faces to the marble tiles in obeisance. She took no more notice of them than she did of the furnishings.

  Straight to her secret chamber she went, closing the door behind her and hurriedly lighting lamps. Triumph sped her movements, the certainty of triumph soon to be realized.

  At the table covered with beakers and flasks she carefully separated one hair from the packet. One would be enough, and that would leave two in case further magicks must be worked on the huge barbarian.

  On a smooth silver plate she painted the sign of the horns, the sign of Al’Kiir, in virgin’s blood, using a brush made from the hair of an unborn child and handled with a bone from its mother’s finger. Next two candles were affixed to the plate, one on either side, and lit. Black, they were, made from the rendered tallow of murdered men, stolen from their graves in blessed ground.

  Haste was of the essence, now, but care, too, lest disaster come in place of what she sought. Gripping her tongue between her teeth, she painted the final symbols about the edge of the plate. Desire. Lust. Need. Wanting. Passion. Longing.

  Quickly she threw aside the brush, raised her hands above her head, then lowered them before her, palms up, in a gesture of pleading. In the arcane tongue she had learned so painfully, Synelle chanted, soft spoken words that rebounded from the pale walls like shouts, invoking powers linked to Al’Kiir yet not of him, powers of this world, not of the void where he was imprisoned. In the beginning she had attempted to use those powers to make contact with Al’Kiir. The result had been a fire that gutted a tower of her castle, lying halfway to the Aquilonian border, a burning with flames that no water could extinguish, flames that died only when there was not even a cinder left to burn. For long after that she had feared to try again, not least for the stares directed at her and the whispers of sorcery at the castle of Asmark. To cover herself she had brought charges of witchcraft against a woman of the castle, a crone of a scullery maid who looked the part of a witch, and had her burned at the stake. Synelle had learned care from that early mistake.

  Slowly the candles guttered out in pools of their own black tallow, and Synelle lowered her hands, breathing easily for the first time in hours. The painted symbols on the plate, the hair, all were ash. A cruel smile touched her lips. No more was there need to fear her desires. The barbarian was hers, now, to do with as she would. Hers.

  11

  Conan’s skin crawled as he walked across the dusty courtyard of the house where his company was quartered. The hairs on his body seemed to move by themselves. Bright sunlight streamed from the golden globe climbing into the mourning sky; chill air seemed to surround him. It had been so ever since he woke, this strangeness, and he had no understanding of why.

  Fear the big Cimmerian dismissed as a cause. He knew his fears well, and had them well in hand. No fear could ever affect him so, who had, in his fear years, faced all manner of things that quelled the hearts of other men. As for the image, and even Al’Kiir, he had confronted demons and sorcerers before, as well as every sort of monster from huge flesh-eating worms to giant spiders dripping corrosive poison from manibles that could pierce the finest armor to a dragon of adamantine scales and fiery breath. Each he had conquered, and if he was wary of such, he did not fear them.

  “Cimmerian,” Narus called, “come get yourself a cloak.”

  “Later,” Conan shouted back to the hollow-faced, who was rooting with others of the company in the great pile of bales and bundles that had been delivered by carts that morning.

  Synelle had finally seen to the needs of the Free-Company she had taken in service. Bundles of long woolen cloaks of scarlet, the color of her house, had been tumbled into the courtyard, along with masses of fresh bedding and good wool blankets. There had been knee-high Aquilonian boots of good black leather, small mirrors of polished metal from Zingara, keen-bladed Corinthian razors, and a score of other things, from a dozen countries, that a soldier might need. Including a sack of gold coin for their first pay. The mercenaries had turned the morning into a holiday with it all. Fabio had kept Julia running all morning, staggering under sacks of turnips and peas, struggling with quarters of beef and whole lamb carcasses, rolling casks of wine and ale to the kitchens.

  Fabio found Conan by the dry fountain. The fat, round cook was mopping his face with a rag. “Conan, that lazy wench you saddled me with has run off and hidden somewhere. And look, she hasn’t swept a quarter of the courtyard yet. Claims she’s a lady. Erlik take her if she is! She has a mouth like a fishwife. Flung a broom at my head in my own kitchen, and swore at me as vilely as I’ve ever heard from any man in the company.”

  Conan shook his head irritably. He was in no mood to listen to the man’s complaints, not when he felt as if ants were skittering over his body. “If you want the courtyard swept,” he snapped, “see to it yourself.”

  Fabio stared after him, open-mouthed, as he stalked away.

  Conan scrubbed is fingers through his hair. What was the matter with him? Could that accursed bronze, the evil of it that Julia claimed to sense, have affected him from beneath the floor while he slept?

  “Cimmerian,” Boros said, popping out of the house, “I’ve been seeking you everywhere.”

  “Why?” Conan growled, then attempted to get a hold of himself. “What do you want?” he asked in a slightly more reasonable tone.

  “Why, that image, of course.” The old man looked around, then lowered his voice. “Have you given any thought to destroying it? The more I think on it, the more it seems the Staff of Avanrakash is the only answer.”

  “I am not stealing the Erlik-accursed scepter,” Conan grated. When he saw Machaon approaching, the Cimmerian felt ready to burst.

  The grizzled mercenary eyed the bigger man’s grim face quizzicall
y, but said only, “We’re being watched. This house, that is.”

  Conan gripped his swordbelt tightly with both hands. This was business of the company, perhaps important business, and he had worked too long and too hard for that to allow even his own temper to damage it.

  “Karela’s men?” he asked in what was almost his normal voice. It took a great effort to maintain it.

  “Not unless she’s begun taking fopling youths into her band,” Machaon replied. “There are two of them, garbed and jeweled for a lady’s garden, with pomanders stuck to their nostrils, wandering up and down the street outside. They show an especial interest in this house.”

  Young nobles, Conan thought. They could be Antimides’ men, if the count was concerned as to how much Conan was talking of what he knew. Or they could be seeking the image, though nobles hardly meshed with the sort who had tried for it thus far. They might even be this Taramenon, Synelle’s jealous suitor, and a friend, come to see for themselves what manner of man the silvery-haired beauty had taken in service. Too many possibilities to reason out, certainly not in his present state of mind.

  “If we seize them when next they pass,” he began, and the two listening to him recoiled.

  “You must be mad,” Boros gasped. “’Tis the image, Cimmerian. It affects you ill. It must be destroyed quickly.”

  “I know not what this old magpie is chattering about,” Machaon said, “but seizing nobles … in broad daylight from a street in the middle of Ianthe … Cimmerian, it would take more luck than ten Brythunian sages to get out of the city with our heads still on our shoulders.”

  Conan squeezed his eyes shut. His brain whirled and spun, skittering through fogs that veiled reason. This was deadly dangerous; he must be able to think clearly, or he could lead them all to disaster.

  “My Lord Conan?” a diffident voice said.

  Conan opened his eyes to find a barefoot man in the short white tunic of a slave, edged in scarlet, had joined them. “I’m no lord,” he said gruffly.