“Captain Tousalos.” Her voice sounded strained, as if she were choking back tears. “When the Shemites attacked, he thirded the escort and scattered us in different directions. The others...” She paused, her voice wavering. “The others—”
“Slain, no doubt,” he conjectured brusquely. “Until now, I never heard of the asshuri taking prisoners. But we are not their first guests here, methinks. Have they tortured you yet?”
His blunt question seemed to catch her by surprise; her despondent whisper came after a long silence. “Yet? They will torture me— a princess?”
“Perhaps not, if they have demanded a ransom from Tiridates.” ‘Then be silent and burden me with no more worries!” Her voice rose an octave. “It is true what they say about your race. You are savages—brutish barbarians with hearts as cold as the hills in which you dwell! You demean my father and speak to me as if I am some village tramp. It is you they should torture. Murdering louts like you deserve to rot in dungeons!”
Conan blinked, taken aback by her venomous outburst. He had been forward with her, but it was not his nature to bow and scrape before every man and woman who bore a title. Respect was earned, not given. Still, he reckoned that his manner had been too callous. Months of piracy in the company of scrofulous sea-dogs had taken its toll on him. Royal birthright aside, Kylanna was but a frightened girl ensnared in a trap of violence and deceit. Furthermore, Conan’s upbringing had instilled in him a rough code of honour that tolerated no mistreatment of innocents, particularly women. Without giving the matter more thought, Conan spoke solemnly. “I swear upon Crom, god of my people, to free you from this place. Hell awaits me if I fail.”
“Noble words for one so base,” Kylanna scoffed. “I’ll warrant that you’ve uttered them a hundred times—without honouring them once.”
Conan bit back a stinging rebuttal. It would do nothing but affirm her low opinion of him. Only deeds would settle this aright. He would carry her all the way to Arenjun if need be and pick up his loot on the way back. Rulvio and the lads would keep for a few weeks. By Crom, they would keep for months if the loot held out that long!
Conan lowered himself to the floor to rest his good leg and conserve strength. As he did so, an odious possibility presented itself. The map! What if these thrice-accursed asshuri had confiscated it? They had not taken his vest, at least. His chains limited his reach, but he could run his fingers along the right side of the garment... there! The seam had not been disturbed. In all likelihood, the map still rested between the outer and inner leathers. He breathed easier, glad that he had sealed the folded parchment into his vest’s hidden pocket.
From down the hall came a rattle, then the thump of boots on stone. The unsightly torturer was back. He stomped to the corridor’s end and set his torch into a fixture upon the wall, directly between Conan’s cell and Kylanna’s. The Cimmerian stared longingly at the pair of keys that hung from a ring on the jailer’s broad belt.
The foul-smelling fiend ignored Conan and unlocked Kylanna’s cell door. He stepped within as Conan’s pulse began to race. Even in the shifting torchlight, he could see why a prince of Shushan would desire the daughter of Tiridates. Her blond tresses wreathed a flawless face, with pale, rosy lips. In her eyes danced jade fire that could enchant a man’s heart. A thin, scanty tunic accentuated her generous curves and clung to her full breasts. Her long, shapely legs, bare from mid-thigh down, trembled slightly at the Shemite’s approach. The asshuri had not fettered her as they had Conan.
The hairy devil tore away her tunic and ogled her nude form. Conan seethed in helpless fury as the swine’s intent became clear. “Cur!” he shouted, his voice like the roar of an enraged lion. “Touch, her, and I’ll tear out your black heart with my hands and feed it to the rats!”
The hideous head swivelled on its squat, fleshy neck to face Conan. “Heh!” the jailer chuckled. “Idle threats, from a man who’s as good as dead. The noose awaits you in Kyros this night, dog. Ho! With the reward we get for snaring you, I’ll feast like a lord tomorrow while you dangle from a rope. Now be silent and learn how a real man pleasures a woman—afore we trade her for Tiridates’ gold.”
Kylanna shrieked and backed away. The jailer pinned her against the wall, fumbling at his belt.
Conan strained at his chains, fury flowing hotter than molten lava through his veins. Steel links battled iron thews; blood streamed from beneath the Cimmerian’s manacles as he grunted and flexed his arms in an effort that three normal men could not have matched. But the contest was hopeless, the chains forged so stoutly that only a sledge and chisel could break them.
“Conan!” came the pleading cry from Kylanna’s cell, followed by the clink of metal on stone.
The Cimmerian stared dumbfounded at the ring of keys, which had slid to a stop mere inches from his feet. He wasted no time pondering how Kylanna had snatched them, for the jailer had roughly flung her to the floor then spun away, grunting incoherently. Conan fumbled with his manacles, choosing the wrong key first, then freeing himself of the steel constraints in a deft frenzy of movement.
The Shemite charged into the corridor as Conan shoved his arm through the bars of his cell door and turned the key in the lock. He forced his stiff knee to bend, hobbling like a lame beggar and cursing the pain that flared from his calf. With both hands, he shoved the door open, slamming it into the jailer’s face.
The leering Shemite snarled and shoved it back, shutting Conan into the cell.
Conan hurled his shoulder against the bars and forced the door open again. In his hand dangled chains, weighted by thick iron manacles. He slipped through the door as the jailer’s fist ploughed into his belly. The blow would have sent a lesser man reeling, but Conan’s midriff was sheathed in muscles of steel. He shouted fiercely and cracked the torturer’s skull with a powerful blow from his heavy chains. Blood and brains sprayed the corridor. Conan seized the torch from the wall and called to Kylanna before the twitching corpse struck the floor. She made a hasty effort to cover herself with her shredded garments, then grimaced and hopped over the dead Shemite.
Conan bent to check the body for a dagger or some other weapon, ignoring the gush of crimson from the ruined head. The jailer had carried no arms. “Carry this,” he said as he handed the torch to Kylanna. “That ruckus will assuredly fetch more of these asshuri dogs. Follow me and tarry not.”
“Yes, milord,” she huffed, “I’ll free Captain Tousalos and look for others while you stand guard.” She snatched the keys from him.
Her sarcasm was wasted on Conan, who noted only that she seemed to have recovered fully from her encounter with the scurrilous Shemite. The girl was either tough or haughty—perhaps both. Favouring his wounded leg, Conan hastened toward the only exit, a stout wooden door reinforced with iron bands. The girl glanced into each cell but entered only the one holding the torturer’s victim.
“Arise, Tousalos!” Kylanna’s frantic whisper echoed from the shadows. “Captain? Ah, Bel—no!” With a sob, Kylanna emerged from the shadows. “Dead,” she said, her eyes downcast.
Conan nodded. “As I feared,” he said with as much sympathy as he could muster. “Doubtless we shall join him in Hell if we further delay our escape. We must be away, now!”
He took back the keys and fitted one into the door’s lock. Beyond lay narrow stairs leading down into a dimly lit corridor. Kylanna clutched at Conan’s proffered hand, eliciting a faint grin from him as they descended. When they reached the bottom, nothing awaited them but a single flickering torch on the corridor wall. They passed by a chamber replete with torture instruments, and a pestilent pit of a room that might have been the jailer’s. Heaps of charred rat-bones lay next to a soiled straw mattress; Conan’s nose twitched at the reek that befouled the air.
The key opened another iron-banded door where the hallway ended. Conan pushed it open and surveyed the area beyond with some wonderment. The door opened to a fenced stockade. The prison was aboveground—a windowless, stone box squatting in a sm
all compound that probably served as an asshuri base. A few wooden buildings rose from the muddy ground of the enclosure. When his eyes had adjusted to the light of what was either dawn or dusk, Conan saw no trace of their asshuri captors.
Eager to exploit this good fortune but unwilling to proceed without a measure of caution, Conan turned to Kylanna and raised his finger to his lips. He then pointed at the nearest fence and crept toward it. Kylanna left the torch behind and followed him. Other than the hoof prints of countless horses in the mud and the occasional impressions of asshuri boots, the place bore few signs of habitation. He whirled when he heard a sound from one of the small wooden buildings, then relaxed. It had been the snort of a restless horse.
They strolled toward the sound and entered the wooden structure.
Kylanna followed close behind, her small hand still engulfed by the Cimmerian’s massive fist. It was now obvious that the sound had issued from the compound’s stable. A familiar, pungent smell rose from rows of straw, and a trough of water lined one of the structure’s three walls. Four horses—three of them fully saddled—shifted nervously as Conan and Kylanna approached.
Conan scowled, his suspicions aroused by this unexpected boon. Something sudden had transpired, else the asshuri would never have left their encampment unguarded. He reasoned that the absence of the asshuri might account for the bold assault on Kylanna; he doubted that the other rogues would have sanctioned the jailer’s despoilment of so precious a treasure. But wounded or sleeping men might lie in the other buildings, and the Cimmerian felt it unwise to linger. Armed with naught but his makeshift weapon of chains and manacles, he would have the worst of a melee if the damned asshuri returned. It were better to escape on these mounts before his well of good fortune ran dry.
“We ride east,” he whispered. Though the terrain lacked any landmarks that he recognized, the sun had become increasingly visible on the horizon. His natural sense of direction needed no more to establish a course.
The beasts shifted and shied from them, but Conan’s horsemanship won out. Kylanna eyed the steeds uneasily, though she vaulted into the saddle and held the reins like a hostler. Conan noted that each of the horses, finely groomed specimens, carried saddlebags, rope, and waterskins. The asshuri had a commendable penchant for readiness.
Unaccosted, the strange duo trotted out of the compound’s simple gate, which Conan closed behind them. He spared the time to survey their meadowy surroundings, noting that the enclosure nestled in a valley be-girded by steep, sparsely forested hills. No path had been beaten through the meadows; the crafty asshuri chose different routes of access to avoid that very thing. From afar, no casual eyes would behold any sign of the compound’s existence. To which of Shem’s city-states did these warriors swear fealty? Conan reckoned that he would know soon enough.
As their horses scaled the eastern hillside and surmounted the ridge, Conan looked down at a fertile, green countryside that stretched in every direction to the limits of his vision. He recognized this lush landscape of vineyards. More precisely, he knew by sight the distinctive mark of Kyros, which adorned the massive gates of the walled city that rose from the greenery a mere half-league from the hilltop.
Kyros! From her grapes were born the finest wines Hyborea offered—and the most expensive. The royal family of Kyros wielded immense wealth and power, all of which stemmed from the flora of these valleys. Just as kings hired men-at-arms to guard their palace walls or protect their royal treasuries, the ruler of Kyros employed many companies of asshuri to maintain his empire of vines. Perhaps Kyros, as well as Koth, sought to prevent a treaty between Zamora and the dominant city-states of eastern Shem.
Conan’s brow furrowed in annoyance. In Messantia, his treasure-hunt had seemed such a pleasurable prospect, free of the irksome artifices that now clouded his thoughts. Well, he would have none of it. Loot was all he sought from this foray—that and some honest blood-letting, should any rogues stand in his way. Too many obstacles lay to the east. The Cimmerian scowled and turned his horse around.
“We must ride north, not east,” he advised Kylanna.
She had been occupied with adjusting her tattered garb, succeeding at last in a more modest arrangement. “North—to Koth!"
Conan nodded. “Aye. You can send a messenger to your father and have him come for you. I shall ride with you as far as Hanshali, a village on the road through the Kothian hills. Merchants and tradesmen control it, so your safety can be procured by simply negotiating for an escort to Arenjun. Mayhap you can pay for passage with one of the caravans passing from Argos to Zamora.”
Kylanna looked doubtful. “I did not mean to speak such ill of you, back in the cell,” she said. “And you did not hear all of my story. When our band rode toward Shushan, my saddlebags carried more than victuals. The king secretly sent a great treasure with me, as my dowry.” Her voice faltered, as if doubting the wisdom of revealing the secret to the barbarian.
The Cimmerian waited patiently, his expression unchanged.
Clearing her throat, she continued. “The Tiara of Zakhraf, who was Zath’s greatest high priestess of old.”
Conan smirked derisively. In Zamboula’s taverns, he had often heard the tale of that tiara’s fate. “Hah! Lost decades ago, when the Kezankian hillmen sacked the temple in Yezud. Were it found, would Tiridates send a mere hundred men to guard it?”
Kylanna shook her head. “He did not wish to draw attention to me. And it was not lost—it was stolen. My father... obtained it from a Nemedian thief, who put a clever forgery in its place. Before the temple was burned.”
“Impossible! No such thief lives. Even I... well, no man could enter the place. Four thousand hillmen perished before even one laid eyes upon the temple’s interior.”
Kylanna shook her head. “No, not impossible—not for Taurus of Nemedia. Though he may no longer live; in this you may speak truly. He disappeared years hence, but he procured the tiara ere he vanished.”
“Taurus! I met him long ago, in Shadizar... but he did not disappear. The bite of a devil-spider sent him to Hell.” Conan shuddered at the memory of his brief but harrowing enterprise with Taurus. By happenstance, he and the Nemedian had chosen the same night to rob the mage Yara’s tower, unaware of a venomous guardian lurking within. Conan had never since met a thief of Taurus’s skill. If anyone could have pilfered Zakhraf's trinket from the temple in Yezud, it would have been that crafty Nemedian.
“You knew him?” Her eyes widened in bemusement. “Well, I suppose that in his profession, he would have associated with all sorts of thugs.”
Conan raised an eyebrow but let the insult pass.
Kylanna sighed. “Taurus was a friend of my father’s, one of few who were kind to me. Tiridates often employed him for tasks requiring special talent. When I was a child, Taurus would bring baubles from faraway lands for my amusement.”
“Aye, a decent enough rogue was Taurus... and more honourable than any Zamorian king,” Conan added. Though he mistrusted Kylanna, he was now convinced that her story bore some resemblance to the truth. After all, the ruthless asshuri had tortured Captain Tousalos to learn the tiara’s whereabouts. “But what of the tiara?”
“We hid it on the way. I shall reveal its hiding place to you—but not until you escort me safely to Arenjun’s gate. I will tell my father that these Shemites stole the tiara.”
“I think not, your majesty,” Conan rumbled, his nostrils flaring. “You must tell me now; we can retrieve it ere we reach Arenjun.” Kylanna crossed her arms indignantly and glared at Conan. “You did spare me from a hideous fate this day,” she said, as if trying to convince herself. “I am beholden to you for that, unseemly as it it. But what is to stop you from abandoning me when I divulge this secret?”
“Ishtar!” Conan exhaled. “Fickle wench—fetch it yourself and walk half-naked from here to Arenjun, if you mistrust me.”
“Very well,” she grumbled, wringing her hands. “Tousalos flung it into a pond at the foot of Devil’s
Thumb—a peak rising from the westernmost edge of the Mountains of Fire.”
“Due north,” Conan muttered, thinking aloud. “Our most direct approach is across the northern hills of Kyros and through the fields of Ghaza. No easy ride, that, even without asshuri dogs nipping at our heels. By Crom, we have wasted precious time on idle prattle when we should have been moving. Ride swiftly with me to keep up, if you would save your royal backside from further indignities!”
The whinny of Conan’s steed smothered her outraged rebuff. Kylanna’s eyes blazed as she urged her horse to a gallop, matching the Cimmerian’s pace.
VI
Stalkers and Sorcerers
Toj scrambled down from his hiding place atop the asshuri prison, his thoughts awhirl. To avoid leaving footprints in the mud, he leapt onto the low fence in front of the asshuri stable and raced nimbly across its narrow wooden beams. A single horse lingered near the fence.
The assassin launched himself from a fence post into the saddle. He faced no mean challenge: Pursuing the girl and the Cimmerian in broad daylight might reveal his presence to them. But he dared not lose Conan again. Already he had been lucky—had the asshuri slain Conan, Toj would soon have joined him in Hell. He must protect Conan, or the Cimmerian would fail to retrieve the pearl god and Jade would not destroy the kalb beetle.
At first, the Cimmerian’s trail was simple to follow. Toj’s tracking skills had rendered this task effortless from Messantia all the way to Argos’s eastern border. But the events of the past two days still befuddled him. First, the chase led by the asshuri, ending in Conan’s imprisonment. Toj had stayed far back to avoid detection and thus had been too distant to help Conan escape. When some twenty of them had borne the barbarian away, the assassin had not dared to intervene. He had waited until nightfall and crept past the sentries into the enclosure. A brief span of eavesdropping divulged the Cimmerian’s location. As he slithered up the prison’s outer wall and onto its rooftop, the strange woman had ridden into the compound.
Conan and the Grim Grey God Page 5
