Chapter Seven
The storm beat at the Earth with icy fists for two days and nights. Came the dawn of the third day, the sun finally reclaimed the land, sending his golden light over a world enshrouded in glistening white. Just in time, too, since the last of their provisions had been consumed.
Conan had not been idle during the blizzard. He had used his dagger to carefully carve three sets of snowshoes from green saplings. The storm had not spared the road, and the attendant cold had crusted the surface, but not to a solidity that would support the weight of a man on mere boots. Too, he had attempted to forage for food; unfortunately, he had sighted no game during the wintery onslaught. It had been left to Tuanne, who herself did not eat, to locate some tough and starchy roots upon which Conan and Elashi chewed. The Cimmerian liked this fare little-he was beginning to feel like a squirrel-but he had little choice. Better rabbit food than none at all. In any event, the storm had done its mischief, and it was now possible to depart.
Elashi had her doubts. "We will sink to our breasts in this accursed snow and freeze!"
"Nay," Conan said. "With these"-he waved the snowshoes-"we can stay on the surface, if we move with care."
Such a thing proved to be the case. The Cimmerian youth led the way across the mounded snows; he sank, but only a little, and his steps created small shush-shush sounds in the frigid air. Conan was a large man, and if the snow would support his weight, Elashi and Tuanne had little worry of being swallowed by the white powder.
Movement was possible, but speed other than slow was not. The young Cimmerian's breath made fog in the air as he shuffled along the road, buried now beneath half a span of fresh snow. Likely Skeer would be having no easier time of it, unless he had cleared the mountain pass before the storm had begun, and Conan contented himself with that belief. Of course, the thief and slayer did not have two women along to slow his pace; still, one made do.
At the moment that the three pursuers began to follow him once again, Skeer moved not at all; rather, he sat wrapped in a blanket, huddled next to a small fire, in magical contact with Neg. He had eaten well, but his trip would be slowed for it. And his lack of a speedy return must be explained, lest Neg chastise him for it.
It had taken no small effort to capture a snow hare. He did not need the meat, but warm blood was essential for the communicatory spell. He had no desire to utilize his own crimson essence, though that was always an option.
Contact was established. The Connection forged in magical fires became as a link between Skeer and his master.
"SPEAK. "
Best move directly to the heart of things, Skeer figured. "I am delayed by a winter storm, lord. My mount is no more, and it might take some time to replace it, as there are none available nearby."
"DO YOU HAVE THAT WHICH I SEEK?"
"Be assured that I do, my lord. I shall hasten to deliver as soon as possible."
"SEE THAT YOU DO. WASTE NO TIME."
"By your command, lord."
Skeer felt the contact sunder, and he shuddered at the malign power of the necromancer that still vibrated through his soul. Neg must not find him wanting, lest his ire manifest itself as Skeer had seen it happen to others. As a master, the necromancer was powerful and generous to those who served him well. To those who served him less than successfully . . . well, 'twas better not to think of them.
The thief stood, stretched his cold ligaments, and swung his arms to hasten the circulation of blood. Best to do as he had been instructed, and waste no time.
"Do you know this route?" Conan asked.
Tuanne nodded. "Yes. We currently travel toward the four mountains known as the Death Mask. Somewhere within their valley lies Opkothard, the city of mystery. It I have never seen, and even rumors speak of it in whispers."
"Is our quarry likely to go there, do you think?" Elashi asked.
Tuanne shook her head. "Unlikely. The most direct path lies ahead. There would be no reason to detour."
"Then perhaps we can catch up to him," Elashi said.
Conan did not state his doubt of this-that Skeer had a horse and they did not. Alone, at a trot, he might maintain the pace of a mount. With these two, Conan thought it unlikely they would catch their quarry.
This was only moments before they discovered Skeer's camp, however. When he saw the remains of Skeer's illfated horse, the big Cimmerian was glad he had not voiced his earlier worry. The left foreleg of the animal was broken, though hardly the cause of death. Though the local vermin had been at the corpse, leaving no useful meat, Conan found a vertebra that had been cleaved in twain with a sword. Skeer had killed his mount, likely due to the broken limb. And had eaten better for it, though he walked now. Fortune had smiled upon them in that respect, at least.
"Perhaps Skeer will detour to this Opkothard after all," Conan said. "Unless he wishes to travel the remaining distance on foot. We might catch him there. Or at least obtain mounts of our own."
"Have you funds for such a purchase?" Tuanne asked.
Conan smiled. "Nay. But I have come to realize that such a state is not always an impediment."
Nightfall found the trio only half the distance they would have traveled without the encumbrance of snow; still, Skeer could travel no faster, and would hardly be gaining. Conan hurried to gather small branches from a dead tree. "We must build a fire," he said.
Elashi, as she was wont to do, remarked upon this with no small amount of superiority in her voice.
"Why do you hurry, Conan? Are you so cold?"
As if in answer, a distant howl came, echoing in the dimming light. After three heartbeats, the howl was followed by a second, then a third. A moment more, and the air seemed alive with the voice of the wild creatures.
Elashi turned to Tuanne, who moved to help Conan gather wood.
"Wolves," Tuanne said simply. "Or worse."
"Worse?"
"Dire-wolves, perhaps. Or those touched with the magic of a were."
"I don't understand," Elashi said. "A where?"
"Werewolves. Men, who when the moon is right or the magic high enough, change from human into magicked creatures. They look like wolves, and act much as natural wolves, but they are intelligent, as are men, and impervious to normal weapons."
Elashi shuddered. It was no more than another heartbeat before she was next to Conan, stripping dry twigs from the tree.
Once the fire was going, Conan felt better. Natural beasts feared fire. If these things painting the night with their songs were other than natural, he would trust to his sword. Crom gave a man courage at birth, and a strong arm and sharp blade would divest a magical beast of its head, he would wager. His dealings with magic thus far in his young life had left a bad taste upon his tongue, and he wanted no part of it.
The beastly howls grew closer. Conan noted that Elashi and Tuanne both seemed more tolerant of his closeness as the sounds drew nearer. At one point, he leaned in to add fuel to the crackling fire. When he leaned back, he felt the hips of both women touch his own brawny thighs to either side. He grinned, but it was a tiny one, more to himself than visible. There were some advantages to the night noises.
The Cimmerian spread his cloak wide. "Wrap this around you," he told the women, "so that we may share our warmth." In truth, with the fire roaring only a span away, he was quite warm; still, both Elashi and Tuanne seemed eager to accept.
To his right, Elashi radiated much heat of her own; but to his left, Tuanne seemed as cold as might a woman carved from marble and left out in the chill of winter. Soft, her body was, but frigid.
With his belly rumbling around the roots and tubers he had eaten and the warmth of the fire and companionship of two women, Conan felt himself slip into a doze.
He awoke to Tuanne's hurried whisper.
"Conan."
The Cimmerian's blue eyes flicked open, to see a monster facing him across the dim remains of the fire.
It was some form of wolf, but half the size of a horse, and nearly as white as the
snow around it. In the faint light of the fire, the thing's bared teeth gleamed like old ivory.
Conan felt Elashi stir next to him. "Prepare to stoke the fire," he whispered. "I shall see if I can frighten it away. "
The dire-wolf edged a bit nearer, watching Conan intently.
Abruptly, Conan leaped to his feet and waved his sword. "Ho, wolf!" he yelled. His voice was a harsh bass that thundered in the quiet night.
The dire-wolf jumped backward twice its length, startled, but stopped there and held its ground. Without turning around, Conan said, "Tuanne, do you think this might be one of those were-creatures of which you spoke?"
"It does not have a magical air about it, no," she replied.
"Good. Build up the fire, in case it has brothers."
The white wolf growled, a deep rumble. Its lips lifted to show the finger-long fangs, and the ruff on its shoulders rose. Stiff-legged, it took a small step toward Conan.
The man gripped his sword's handle loosely, avoiding tension that would slow him, and began to circle to his right.
The wolf turned to follow Conan's progress. The rumble increased. Conan watched as it gathered itself for a spring.
The wolf leaped, aiming for Conan's throat. Lithely, the Cimmerian youth bounded to one side, out of the creature's path. He swung the big broadsword around and over his head, as might a man splitting wood with an axe, but kept his shoulders down, as he had been taught.
The wolf's speed was deceptive. It seemed to move slower than it actually did. Conan's swing, had it connected with the beast's neck or body, would have dealt it a killing blow. As it happened, the razored edge of the sword met instead the tip of the beast's tail, and severed it neatly.
The wolf howled and spun, but its balance was altered by the missing segment of tail. When it darted in to sink its teeth into Conan's thigh, what it found instead was the Cimmerian's cloak. Growling, it tore at the material, shaking it from side to side.
Having adjusted for his earlier error, Conan's second cut was more accurate. His blade sang in the frosty air, a cold melody of iron and blood, and the edge of the sword met the gristle and bone of the dire-wolf's neck. The contest went to the man and forged metal.
The beast's head sagged, then fell away from the body, sinking into the snow with a wet thump. An instant passed before the body of the wolf realized its fate. Then, in a single, final spasm, the body sprang sightlessly, smashing into Conan, knocking him sprawling, gouting crimson over the fallen man.
Both Tuanne and Elashi leaped toward Conan, yelling his name.
The Cimmerian giant sat up and shoved the corpse of the wolf away from him, smearing yet more of the thing's gore over his hands. Steam arose from the congealing blood, to dissipate in the night's hard cold.
"It is nothing," he said, getting to his feet.
The two women stared at him. Even Tuanne, who must have seen many sights in her unnatural lifetime, seemed amazed that Conan still lived.
"Lend me your knife," Conan said to Elashi. "Perhaps the white fur of this beast might be worth something."
Silent for once, Elashi tendered her dagger.
Conan tested the edge, found it satisfactory, and set to removing the pelt of the dire-wolf. The creature would have no more use for it. He could not tan it properly, but the wolf also had brains it would no longer need, as well. Rubbed into the inner lining of the pelt, they would help preserve it until proper methods could be used.
Chapter Eight
Neg swung his hand hard, and the back of it smacked against the face in front of him with a satisfying, if not particularly effective, slap.
The recipient of the strike held his unblinking stare without apparent pain or even interest. He was one of the Men With No Eyes, and his glassy orbs swam with swirling and tiny gray clouds that gave his face the only movement visible.
"Is she the only one?" Neg demanded.
The figure nodded once, the gesture almost a bow.
"Then you shall replace her!"
At this the figure finally showed some emotion. He backed away, raising his hands.
Neg smiled. He waved, and another pair of his sightless minions flowed toward the condemned one. They grabbed him tightly, and for a moment, it seemed as if he might resist. Abruptly, the struggles stopped, as if the man-it had once been a man, after all-realized the uselessness of his actions.
"Take him to the vaults. Kill him."
After the three had departed, Neg moved to observe himself in a looking glass on the nearby wall of his chamber. Where have you gotten to, Tuanne? Not within my range of command, for I cannot feel your essence, either in the land of the living or the dead. The In-Between Lands? I could not find you, be you there, but how did you manage to leave my vaults, my pretty night-child?
Neg's image regarded him impassively, its face hiding any emotion beneath a mask of unconcern. It bodes ill, brother, the image seemed to say, for one of your thrall to escape. Such a thing has never happened before. Is your power waning? Is there some preternatural force interfering with your own? Has some trickster god inserted his verge into your affairs for reasons of his own?
Neg turned away from the glass, disturbed by the questions of his mirror image. Such things could not be answered. She was gone, whatever the reason, and that was as much as he could ascertain at the moment.
Very well. He could deal with that aspect of the affair. Aside from the fact that Tuanne was one of his favorite slaves, there existed the matter of maintaining appearances. True, he deemed it unlikely that anyone outside his castle would ever know of her escape; still, if anyone did learn of it, it would seem a chink in his power. Therefore, it would behoove him to locate the woman and retrieve her as soon as possible.
He clapped his hands. Almost immediately, one of the blind priests stood before him. It was as if the man had heard the sound of Neg's hands in the air before they had slapped together, so fast was the response. Possibly he had; the cult had hearing beyond that of mortal men.
"Go and find my thrall, the one your brother allowed to escape. Take five like yourself and go now. Do not return without her. "
The Man With No Eyes bowed, and turned away, his robes flaring with the quickness of his move.
Good, Neg thought. That chore would be settled soon. The Men With No Eyes were most tenacious. He would content himself with devising an appropriate punishment for the lovely Tuanne when she was returned to him. Something subtle, but effective.
Meanwhile, he would await the delivery of the Source of Light. Should it arrive before his priests could fetch Tuanne, that would end the matter. With the talisman's power, he could find her anywhere, Between Lands or no. His reach would be boundless.
He grinned at the thought and felt quite happy. Perhaps another rat would try to scold him as he walked the dank halls of the castle. That would be nice. He would like to use his death-gaze once again. And when he exhausted the rat supply? Well, there were always the nearby villagers ....
Skeer's feet bore large blisters inside his ill-fitting boots as he approached the city of Opkothard. He had caught distant glimpses of it as the trail twisted through the craggy mountains, but when he rounded the final bend that allowed him a full view, he abruptly forgot the pain in his feet.
Opkothard: it was a place of much speculation by those who had never been there. He himself had managed to survive thirty-two winters without laying his gaze upon the place, and had never felt the lack. As he stared at the city wall no more than an hour's walk ahead, he wished he did not have to see it now.
The city wall was massive, the exact color of the surrounding rock, and likely built of that same gray stone. Judging size at this distance was no easy chore, but if that ant crawling along the top was a man, then the wall scaled a height of at least twelve spans. What need had they of a barrier that high? And correspondingly thick, too, he would wager.
There was only one entrance along the unbroken gray wall, that being astride the very path upon which he now trod. T
he gates, themselves half the height of the wall, seemed to be of some dark red material. As he drew closer, Skeer observed that this material seemed to be iron, and the red a thin layer of rust. No invading force would burn through those portal doors!
As if any invading force could even reach the doors. For, as he approached, the thief saw that the path narrowed for the last segment, so that nothing wider than a single dray could traverse it. To either side, a sheer drop loomed, ending in jagged rocks far below. Just before the gates, a domino bridge finished the path. With it raised, a gap wider than five armspans would open its maw to swallow any so foolish as to try and leap it.
The Opkothardians did not wish to have uninvited company, so it would seem. And any not allowed in would have a difficult time trying to force entrance. Three or four men might march abreast along the narrow path to the drawbridge, but leaping over the gap while avoiding arrows from a phalanx of bowmen on the walls certainly did not fulfill any of Skeer's ambitions. Leave that to men without enough sense to come in out of the rain.
The guard posted above the gates must have seen Skeer approaching for the better part of half an hour, and yet he seemed to take no notice until Skeer hailed him.
"Ho, the city!"
'Yes? What would ye be needin', footman?"
"Entrance would do."
"Aye, ye would think so. For what purpose?"
Skeer had not thought of having to satisfy an examination for entrance to the city; still, his wit had never been dull on such matters. As he had walked the final steps to the gate, he had spied painted upon the rock near the rusted iron a symbol, that of a fat-bodied spider. Now Skeer paid reverence to no particular gods, though he was wont to use the names of many, usually in swearing. But he had some knowledge of this particular symbol: it represented the Nameless spider-god, a patron deity of Yezud, were he not mistaken. The Nameless had never held sway over great numbers in the way that Mitra, Bel, or even Set had done; still, the Nameless had his worshipers. For his sign to be so prominently displayed upon the otherwise graffitiless wall likely meant something of import.
The Conan Compendium Page 34
