by Roland Green
That time she had saved herself by climbing high up the next standing tree for the bear. But there were no trees close to hand in this alien wilderness of rock, for which she had abandoned her familiar forests. She wished briefly that Grolin and the Soul of Thanza would both fall into a cave that would then collapse upon them, grinding them both to dust and removing them from the memory of men.
But wishes led no bands of warriors. Her watch was done; and she had much to do before daylight faded and night brought Conan’s return.
Conan awoke slowly, in what at first seemed complete darkness. Gradually he became aware of a greyish twilight that seemed to envelop him like water. He also became aware of pain in several parts of his body and saw that he was lying on a bed of fine sand.
This was as well, because he felt no great urge to rise or move about. No bones seemed broken, and he could breath and move every part of his body without unendurable pain. But plainly he had taken such a fall that even for him rest would be prudent.
Before resting however, he sat up. This sent pain ringing like a gong through more of his body than before. It also showed him his surroundings.
The dim light came from patches of greyish moss on the walls and on boulders jutting from the sand. It was enough to reveal the bottom of a vertical shaft, that shot up to vanish in darkness far above.
Conan’s wits were returning. Plainly the ledge that moved under him at the top of the shaft, and a cave lay at the bottom. How far he had fallen, he did not dare to think about. The bed of sand rose at a sharp angle, fit to break a man’s fall and leave him merely stunned rather than dead—if he were fortunate enough to strike only sand.
Dutulus had not been so lucky. A patch of blood showed where he had struck a boulder. As if that blow had been insufficient, he had bounced, like a child’s ball, to strike another. He now lay across the second boulder, his blood smearing the moss into a grisly paste, his half-crushed head lolling and his back bent far beyond any angle imaginable for a living man.
To test his strength, Conan forced himself to his feet and walked over to Dutulus. If he took one step at a time, he could walk without too much pain. He suspected that it would be some time before he could fight or run.
So he knelt beside Dutulus and told Crom that here was a brave man who deserved his attention, and that any help he gave in avenging the man’s death would not come amiss. The Cimmerian was not a man for death rituals, and in any case he did not know whether Dutulus’s folk buried, burned, or exposed to the sky their honoured dead.
A shadowy opening in the wall beyond Dutulus revealed a faint glimmering and enlarged the sound of rushing water. As underground rivers were not uncommon in this land Conan saw that he need not fear thirst.
Rest and water should make him fighting-fit long before either friend or foe came searching for him. Conan returned to his first resting place, lay down in the sand, scooped out a shallow nest like a dog lying down in high grass, and fell swiftly asleep.
Lord Grolin was so weary after the day’s march that he was asleep almost the moment he sat down. He thought briefly that he should see to the cook fires and the sentries, as a captain’s duty required. But he decided that discipline of his dwindling band of followers would survive their chiefs inattention for a single night. Indeed, it might solve many problems if he did not awake.
When Grolin did awake, it was fully dark, except for an area immediately before him. What he saw at first made him believe that he had indeed died and gone to some particularly unpleasant after-world.
A maw gaped before him. It was not the mere incorporeal blackness he had seen above the citadel but the mouth of a gigantic serpent. The creature seemed to stretch from the stars, to the earth, and all around it jutted gleaming teeth longer than a man.
Above the maw shone two red eyes that might have been ruby-coloured. But Grolin would have happily thrown any ruby of that hue into the nearest fire, although it was worth a king’s ransom.
He wanted to scream. He knew he would, if he said nothing. So once more he articulated the first words that came to his lips:
“Cease these jests, Mend sorcerer. If you have come for serious matters, speak of them. If not, depart and let me sleep.”
The gigantic maw shrank down to the size of a large melon. Grolin saw that it belonged to a real creature, a snake easily twenty paces long, covered with glossy black scales, and sporting two pairs of leathery * wings.
It hissed twice, then closed its mouth. As the fangs vanished, the sorcerer’s long face appeared where the snake’s head had been. It held no expression.
“How are we going to speak?” Grolin whispered. “Briefly, as you wished,” the sorcerer replied. If human words could describe creations of magic, Grolin would have said that the sorcerer seemed uneasy. Grolin spoke first:
“Enemies are closer to the Soul of Thanza than we are. I tried to drive them away, but they would not be driven. Some have entered the Mountain of the Skull.” “If one of the enemies you tried to drive forth was that Cimmerian, it does not surprise me that he would not go save where he wished. You may slay that man, but do not expect to frighten him.”
“Indeed. That is why I do not seek to make him the
Death Lord of Thanza. You, one may dream of guiding. The Cimmerian, never.”
Grolin decided that he had not been insulted, only described. He also decided that Conan would be a poor choice for other reasons. Many northerners loathed even lawful sorcery, and he would also have been giving ear to Lysinka.
So Conan would instead be implacably on Grolin’s trail, and nothing would save the baron except becoming the Death Lord. He propped himself up on one elbow.
“Do we seek the Mountain of the Skull now, or will morning suffice?”
“You dare much, Grolin. Without my guidance, you will be too long in finding the mountain.”
“Without my presence, you lack a human to become the Death Lord. Without my men, you will not have my presence. I will fight neither Cimmerians nor any other being with men so weary they can barely stand, let alone wield a sword.”
Grolin thought this defiance might be a death sentence. He hardly cared. He and his men would rather be dead than to undertake a night march.
The sorcerer’s face shimmered so brightly for a moment, in rich amber hues, that Grolin blinked, then looked about to see if any of his men were awake and alarmed. None seem to be stirring.
Then the sorcerer spoke in Grolin’s mind. “Very well. Please yourself. But do not presume on such friendship as I bear you.”
The face vanished. The snake reared upright until an impossible portion of its length rose like a tree. The two pairs of wings beat three times, and with a whusssh of tom air the creature soared out of sight.
“My lord!” called a sentry. “Was there a bear in the camp just now?”
“Hardly that,” Grolin replied. “I saw something too, but I think it was just a trick of light and shadow.”
“Aye, my lord.”
As before, the man sounded willing to obey rather than believe. Grolin wondered how often he would lie to the men about the sorcerer before they ceased to believe him in this matter—or in others.
Once more, he knew that the only real power was one that he held absolutely and alone, needing no aid from either men or sorcerers.
Conan’s sleep greatly refreshed him. His robust frame also healed quickly. When he awoke a second time, he hardly felt pain, and sprang up nearly as limber as before.
Exploring beyond the opening revealed that an underground river indeed flowed through the caves. It was not much more than two spear-lengths wide but of a depth he could not plumb. It was cold enough to freeze not merely a man’s flesh but also his bones.
Withal, it likewise seemed the only way out of these caves for an unassisted man. Conan looked briefly up the shaft, to be assured that it was indeed vertical. It was of height he could not even guess.
He had been very fortunate to survive his recent fall; he coul
d not hope for such luck a second time. Nor did the smooth walls of the shaft offer any hand-or foothold to keep him from that second fall.
Waiting for help to come went against Conan’s nature, and moreover seemed less than prudent. Regius Panon might not have escaped to spread the news of Conan’s fall. Even if he had, it could be days before Conan’s friends came in search of him; days more before they found him. Meanwhile he would be growing weaker from lack of food, and friends were not all who might come seeking him.
Somewhere above him laired the flying snakes. Whether they were newly come by magic or were ancient dwellers in this land, Conan could think of only one reason for their presence. They were here to defend the Soul of Thanza.
If so, those scaly creatures were about to start earning their keep!
Conan stripped off his boots, sword, and most of his clothes. Then he bundled them up inside his oiled-leather cloak. With the weight of the sword, the bundle would barely float, but tied to Conan’s waist, it did well enough that he would have both hands free.
That he would need. He could hold his breath longer than most men, save only the pearl divers of Vendhya, but he could not know how far the river ran between caves. He would be swimming for his life the moment he entered the river, with little chance of retracing his course against the current before he ran out of breath.
So be it. He hoped that if the gods did care anything for men, they would be kind to Dutulus and also give Lysinka either victory or a fleet pair of heels, if he could not be found at her side.
Then he slipped into the stream, gritting his teeth at the bite of the cold and vanished into the bowels of the mountain.
The scouts who had not climbed the mountain with Conan brought Regius Panon to Lysinka the moment they returned to the citadel.
Shaken as he was, he had kept his wits about him, and neither told the tale of Conan’s vanishing nor allowed the other scouts to do so. Luckily there had been no further sign of the flying snakes.
Of them he spoke freely, with Lysinka’s approval. The men would have to defend themselves against this new menace; they had the right to know. Keeping such a secret from them would sow distrust between captains and fighters, and if that came to the citadel, they would have no need for other enemies.
Reluctantly, Klarnides agreed with her on that matter. Still more reluctantly, he agreed to follow her as he would Conan.
“A divided command is worse than none at all, which is what we might otherwise have,” Klarnides said. “Curse that Cimmerian! I trusted him not to fling himself off cliffs or whatever else he’s contrived to do!”
“War is the realm of chance,” Lysinka murmured.
“You need not quote scribes to me,” Klarnides said, his voice as sour as his face. “Just as long as you can make the Rangers follow you, that will be enough.”
“I can probably do better by the Rangers than you could with my folk,” Lysinka said with a thin smile. “They are all bandits, and we have neither Conan nor Tharmis Rog with us to keep them within lawful bounds.”
“Again, tell me what I do not already know, which is not as little as you think,” Klarnides said. “For example, I know that we must guard the mountain where Conan vanished even before we seek him within it.
“The guards must be able to send messages to the citadel faster than a man can walk. I know the Aquilonian host’s torch signals. Shall I teach a few of them to our men?”
“With my blessing, for what that is worth,” Lysinka said. She tried to hide the fact that Klarnides’s loyalty truly moved her, surly and reluctant as it might be.
“Your blessing might not be worth much in Tarantia or Shamar,” Klarnides said. “Here in your homeland, it earns my deepest gratitude.” Now he did not sound surly at all.
XI
Conan’s head rose and bumped the roof of the cave. It barely deserved the name—but as long as it held enough air to let him fill his lungs...
Five times the Cimmerian’s lungs had been near to bursting before he found air above him. Three other times he had an easy passage. After one of these he had found a cave so large it might have been worth exploring. But the luminous moss that grew so abundantly elsewhere was scanty in that cave, shedding just enough light to hint of its size without revealing more.
Conan did not hope for much after groping blindly in the dark. The cave offered no better chance of escape and hardly less peril than riding the river. The only thing the cave offered him was a brief respite from the chill water.
Then he plunged in again and now was in his ninth (or was it tenth?) breathing space. Another round won in this deadly game he was playing with the river, the darkness, and the mountain.
It was a game with the gods themselves perhaps throwing dice to determine the Cimmerian’s fate, as he had heard some irreverent souls suggest late at night when much wine had gone around. The notion made as much sense to the Cimmerian as anything else he had heard said of the gods, who surely gave less thought to men than the priests would have fools believe.
Meanwhile, Conan’s lungs were filled again, and his vision cleared of the sparks of gold and silver fire that broke the blackness when his breath grew short. He turned in a circle, treading water as best he could in the current while he studied what he could see.
In three directions that was little enough. At its highest point, this cave rose barely an arm’s length above the water. But downstream, a faint arc of light broke the darkness.
It had the same pallid, dubious quality as the glow from the moss in other caves, although it was much brighter. Conan did not dare hope it was daylight, unless he had been within the mountain so long that he was about to be carried out of it into the dawn.
The force of the current saved him much swimming. Soon he could see that the arch was too low above the water to allow him to remain on the surface. He braced himself against the rock, sucked in air until his head swam, then dove and began thrashing his way downstream once more.
The passage between the low cave and the next one was among the shortest of Conan’s underground journey. He had barely dived when the water above turned distinctly lighter in hue. It was not an agreeable colour. It reminded Conan of a singularly foul stew he had once choked down while on campaign with the hosts of Turan. But it was light, and where there was light there would be air.
Conan burst to the surface. The splash alone raised echoes, which informed the barbarian that he was in the largest cave yet. Unlike the previous large caves, however, this cave was not lost in impenetrable shadows that might hide any sort of menace.
The floor of this cave was a broad pool, in which the swift current of the underground river slowed perceptibly. On one side lay only a narrow ledge. On the other stood a broader shelf, stretching away into shadows as the roof lowered. As best Conan could judge, at the far end of the shelf a low archway, too regular to be natural, led into a further cave. The archway seemed to be partly blocked on either side by piles of white stones.
The edge of the shelf appeared to be scored in two or three places as if by a giant’s chisel. Conan also saw what seemed to be scattered bones around each of these scorings. The bones did not look like fish bones: sheep or goats would have been the Cimmerian’s guess.
Cautiously, taking care to use steady, even strokes without breaking the water’s surface or making any other avoidable noise, the Cimmerian swam toward the shelf. He remembered now that he had not seen a single fish, skeletal or living, since he had entered the river for the first time.
The experienced wariness of both warrior and hunter painted an unpleasant picture for the Cimmerian. Add the absence of fish to those scorings in the rocks and the littered bones of animals who had tumbled through crevices into the depths of the mountains...
Add these together and the sum suggested that a large flesh-eater was living in the river, perhaps sharing the pool with Conan at this very moment.
The Cimmerian did not alter his stroke in the least, save to reach down to make sure tha
t his dagger was still in his belt and his bag still towing behind him. Fifty paces to the shelf, forty, thirty—
Something rose from the depths behind the Cimmerian. He felt the wake of its passage against his skin. Then he felt a sharp tug at his waist as the intruder seized the bag.
The water dragon that inhabited the underground river had been hatched as a pet of the last Death Lord of Thanza. That was in the days when the magic of Acheron and other powers that had justly earned equally vile reputations clung to the Thanzas, like a swarm of flies circling a dunghill.
This made the water dragon one of the oldest of its kind yet living in Hyborian lands. Yet in its early days, the magic surrounding it had so thoroughly strengthened it that it hardly noticed at first when the magic departed.
Centuries passed, the Death Lords became tales told to frighten children, and still the water dragon swam blithely through the dark waters. At times decent, warm-blooded prey, some with two legs and some with four, found its way into the subterranean warrens. Then the dragon fed its body, if not its essence.
But the essence needed feeding too, and for that it needed magic that was nowhere to be found. So like others of its kind, the dragon at last fell into a profound sleep, which lasted for hundreds of years.
When the dragon fell asleep, the land of Aquilonia had not yet earned the title of “kingdom.” When it awoke, it was because of the flight of the Soul of Thanza from the caravan and the magical storm this raised.
The storm passed, the dragon awoke, and both its body and its essence hungered. There was enough magic to give the essence vitality for a while, but as for food, it faced a different fate.
It could not climb the shafts within the mountain to raid the nests of the flying snakes. Many of those shafts in any case had crumbled over the centuries, so that fewer animals found their way below ground. Those beasts and all the fish in the river under the mountain were not enough to feed its body.
