"You work well," Akeba grunted, wiping his blade on a corpse's robe. "You should think of the army if we live to leave this. . ." His words trailed off as both men became aware of a new presence in the corridor. The blackrobed Khitan assassin.
Unhurriedly he moved toward them, with the casual confidence of a great beast that knows its kill is assured. His hands were empty of weapons, but Conan remembered well the dead in Samarra's yurt, with no wound on any but looks of horror on every face, and Zorelle, dead from a touch.
Conan firmed his grip on the worn leather hilt of his broadsword, but as he stepped forward Akeba laid a hand on his arm. The soldier's voice was as cold as frozen iron. "He is mine. By right of blood, he is mine."
Reluctantly Conan gave way, and the Turanian moved forward alone. Of necessity the big Cimmerian waited to watch his friend do battle. Jhandar was still uppermost in his mind, but the way to him led deeper into the palace, past the murderously maneuvering pair before him.
The Khitan smiled; his hand struck like a serpent, and, like a mongoose, Akeba was not there. The assassin flowed from the path of the soldier's flashing steel, yet the smile was gone from his face. Like malefic dancers the two men moved, lightning blade against fatal touch, each aware of the other's deadliness, each intent on slaying. Abruptly the Khitan deciphered the pattern of Akeba's moves; the malevolent hand darted for the soldier's throat. Desperately Akeba blocked the blow, and it struck instead his sword arm. Crying out, the Turanian staggered back, tulwar falling, arm dangling, clawing with his good hand for his dagger. The assassin paused to laugh before closing for the kill.
"Crom!" Conan roared, and leapt.
Only the Khitan's unnatural suppleness saved him from the blade that struck where he had been. Smiling again, he motioned the Cimmerian to come to him, if he dared.
"I promised to let you kill him," Conan said to Akeba, without taking his eyes from the black-robed man,
"not the other way around."
The Turanian barked a painful laugh. He clutched his dagger in one hand, but the other twitched helplessly at his side and only the tapestry-covered wall kept him from falling. "As you've interfered," he said between clenched teeth, "then you must kill him for me, Cimmerian."
"Yes," the assassin hissed. "Kill me, barbarian."
Without warning, Conan lunged, blade thrusting for the black-robed one's belly, but the killer seemed to glide backward, stopping just beyond the sword's point.
"You must do better, barbar. Che Fan was wrong. You are just another man. I do not think you truly entered the Blasted Lands, but even if you did, you survived only by luck. I, Suitai, will put an end to you here. Come to me and find your death."
As the tall man spoke Conan moved slowly forward, sliding his feet along the marble floor so that he was at no time unbalanced. His sword he held low before him, point flickering from side to side like the tongue of a viper, light from the burnished brass lamps. on the walls glittering along the steel, and though the Khitan spoke confidently, he kept an eye on that blade.
Abruptly, as the assassin finished his speech, Conan tossed his sword from right hand to left, and Suitai's gaze followed involuntarily. In that instant the Cimmerian jerked a tapestry from the wall to envelop the other man. Even as the hanging tangled about the Khitan's head and chest Conan lunged after, steel ripping through cloth and flesh, grating on bone.
Slowly the assassin heaved aside the portion of the tapestry that covered his head. With glazing eyes he stared in disbelief at the blade standing out from his chest, the dark blood that spread to stain his robes.
"Not my death," Conan told him. "Yours."
The Khitan tried to speak, but blood welled from his mouth, and he toppled, dead as he struck the marble floor. Conan tugged his blade free, cleaning it on the tapestry as he might had it been thrust into offal.
"I give you thanks, my friend," Akeba said, pushing unsteadily away from the wall. His face gleamed with the sweat of pain, and his arm still dangled at his side, but he managed to stand erect as he looked on the corpse of his daughter's murderer. "But now you have hunting of your own to do."
"Jhandar," Conan said, and without another word he was moving forward again.
Like a great hunting cat he strode through halls lit by glittering brass lamps, but bare of life. The gods smiled on those who did not meet him in those passages, for he would not now have slowed to see if they bore weapons or not. His blood burned for Jhandar's death. Any who hindered or slowed him now would perish in a pool of their own blood.
Then great bronze doors stood before him, doors scribed with a pattern that seemed to have no pattern, that rejected the eye's attempt to focus on it. Setting hands against those massive metal slabs, muscles cording with strain, he forced the portals open. Sword at the ready, he went through.
In an instant the horror of that great circular chamber engraved itself on his brain. Yasbet lay chained and gagged on a black altar, to one side of her Davinia, knife upraised to plunge into the bound girl's heart, to the other Jhandar, an arcane chant rising from his mouth to pierce the air. Over the entire blood-chilling tableau a shimmering silvery-azure dome was forming.
"No!" Conan shouted.
Yet even as he dashed forward he knew he would not reach them before that knife had done its terrible work. He fumbled for his dagger. Davinia froze at his cry. Jhandar's incantation died as he spun to confront the man who had dared interrupt the rite; the glow disappeared as his words ceased.
Desperately Conan hurled his dagger-toward Davinia, for she still held her gleaming blade poised above Yasbet-but Jhandar turning, moved between them. The mage screamed as the needle-sharp steel sliced into his arm.
Clutching his wound, blood dripping between his fingers, Jhandar turned a frightful glare on Conan. "By the blood and earth and Powers of Chaos I summon you," he intoned. "Destroy this barbarian?" Davinia shrank back, as if she would have fled had she dared.
The floor trembled, and Conan skidded to a halt as chunks of marble erupted almost beneath his feet.
Leather-skinned and fanged, a sending such as those he had faced before clawed its way clear of dirt and stone. With a wild roar, the Cimmerian brought his blade down with all his might in an overhead blow, slicing through the demoniac skull to the shoulders. Yet, unbleeding and undying, it struggled to reach him, and he must needs chop and chop again, hacking the monstrous thing apart. Even then its fragments twitched in unabated fury. More creatures tore through stone between him and the altar, and still more to either side of him, snarling in bloodlust. As a man might reap hay Conan worked his sword, steel rising and falling tirelessly. Severed limbs and heads and chunks of obscene flesh littered the floor, yet there were more, always more, ripping passage from the bowels of the earth. Cut off from Yasbet and the altar, it was but a matter of time before he was overwhelmed by sheer numbers.
A smile, pained, yet tinged with satisfaction at the Cimmerian's coming doom, appeared on Jhandar's face. "So Suitai lied," he rasped. "I will settle with him for it. But now, barbar, pause a moment in your exertions, if you can, to watch the fate of this woman, Esmira. Davinia! Attend the rite as I commanded you, woman!"
Terror twisting her face, Davinia raised the silver-bladed dagger once more. Her eyes bulged when they strayed to the deformed creatures battling Conan, but her hand was steady. Jhandar began again his invocation of the Power.
Raging, Conan tried to clear a path to the altar with his sword, but for each diabolic attacker he hewed to the floor, it seemed that two more appeared.
There was a commotion behind the Cimmerian, and a saffron-robed man staggered into his view, blood streaming down his face, weakly attempting to lift his sword. After him followed Sharak. Conan was so amazed that he hesitated with sword raised, staring. In that momentary respite the creatures tightened their circle about him, and he was forced to redouble his efforts to stop their advance.
Sharak's staff cracked down on his opponent's head; blood splattered from that s
haven skull, and its owner fell, his sword sliding across the floor to stop against the altar. Irritably Jhandar looked over his shoulder, but did not stop his chant.
Conan lopped off a fang-mouthed head and kicked the headless body, now clawing blindly, into the path of another creature. His sword took an arm, then a leg, sliced away half of a skull, but he knew his sands had almost run out. There were just too many.
Abruptly Sharak was capering beside him, waving his staff wildly.
"Be gone from here," Conan shouted. "You are too old to"
Sharak's staff thumped a leathery skull, and the creature screamed. At the altar Jhandar jerked as if he had felt the blow. Even the other beings froze as sparks ran along the struck creature's blue-gray skin.
With a clap, as of thunder, it was gone, leaving only oily, black smoke that drifted upward.
"I told you it had power!" the old astrologer cried wildly. He struck out again; more greasy smoke rose toward the vaulted ceiling.
Now those hell-born backed warily from Conan and Sharak rolling fearsome red eyes at Jhandar. For that moment at least, the way to the altar was clear, and Conan dashed for the black stone.
For but a heartbeat Jhandar faced that charge, then howled, "There are Powers you have not seen in your nightmares! Now face them!" and darted across the floor and down a small arched passage. With his departure the creatures, yet whole, seemingly freed of his command, vanished also.
Indecision racked Conan. For all he had sworn the necromancer would be dealt with first, Yasbet lay chained before him, with Davinia....
As his gaze fell on her, the lithesome blonde backed away, wetting her lips nervously. "I heard you had sailed away, Conan," she said, then quickly abandoned that line as his face did not soften. "I was forced, Conan. Jhandar is a sorcerer, and forced me to this." She held the dagger low in the thumb-and-forefinger grip of one who knew how to gut a man, but she did not move toward Conan.
One eye on Davinia, Conan stepped up to the altar. Yasbet writhed in her chains. Four times his blade rang against her bonds, and steel conquered iron.
Ripping the gag from her mouth, Yasbet scrambled from the altar and plucked the dead Cult member's sword from the floor. Her hair lay wildly on her shoulders and breasts; she looked a naked goddess of battles. "I will deal with this...." Words failed her as she glared at Davinia.
"Fool wench," Conan snapped. "I did not free you to see you stabbed!"
"'Tis a Cimmerian fool I see," Sharak called. He still leaped about like a puppeteer's stick figure, disposing with his staff of the portions of creatures that littered the chamber floor. "The necromancer must be slain, or all this is for naught!"
The old man spoke true, Conan knew. With a last look at Yasbet, closing grimly in on a snarling Davinia, he turned into the small passage Jhandar had taken.
It was not long, that narrow corridor. Almost immediately he saw a glow ahead; the same silver blue that had shone about the altar, yet a thousand times brighter. Quickening his pace, he burst into a small, unadorned chamber. In its center, surrounded by plain columns, a huge bubble of roiling mist burned and pulsed. Barely, through the brightness, Conan could make out Jhandar beyond the pool, arms outspread, his voice echoing like a bronze bell in words beyond understanding. Yet it was the brilliantly shining mass that held his eye, and hammered at him as it did. From those pulsating mists radiated, neither good nor evil, but the antithesis of being, beating at his mind, threatening to shatter all that was in him into a thousand fragments.
Pale images, washed out by the blinding glow, moved at the edge of his vision, then resolved themselves into two of the leather-skinned beings from the grave, sidling toward him along the wall as if they feared that shining. He knew that he must deal with the creatures and reach Jhandar, reach him quickly, before he completed whatever sorceries he was embarked upon, yet within the Cimmerian there was struggle.
Never had he given in while he had strength or means to resist, but a thought strange to him now crept into his mind. Surrender. The mist was overpowering. Then, as if the words were a spark, rage flared in him. As a boy in the icy mountains of Cimmeria he had seen men, caught in an avalanche, hacking at towering waves of snow and dirt as they were swept away, refining to accept the thing that killed them.
He would not surrender. He-would-not surrender!
A wordless scream of primal rage burst from Conan's throat. He spun, swinging his sword like an axe.
Head and trunk of the foremost creature toppled, sliced cleanly from its hips and legs. Jhandar, rang in the Cimmerian's brain, and he was moving even as his steel broke free of that unnatural flesh.
But such a creature could not be slain like a mortal. The upper portion twisted as it fell, seized Conan about the legs, and together they crashed to the stone floor. Jagged teeth slashed Conan's thigh, yet in the beserker rage that gripped him he was as much beast as that he fought. His fisted hilt smashed into the creature's skull, again and again, till he pounded naught but slimy pulp. Yet those mindless arms gripped him still.
And Jhandar's chant continued unabated, as if he were too enmeshed in the Power to even be aware of another's presence.
Claws clattering on marble warned the Cimmerian that the second creature drew near. Wildly, half-blinded by the everbrightening glow, Conan struck out. His blade caught but an ankle, yet the thing stumbled, flailed for balance... and fell shrieking against the shining dome. Lightnings arced and crackled, and the creature was gone.
The way to Jhandar was open. Grim determination limning his icy eyes, Conan crawled. Animal fury burned in his brain. Now the sorcerer would die, if he had to rip out his throat with bared teeth. Yet in a small, sane corner of his mind there was despair. Jhandar's ringing incantation was rising to a crescendo.
The necromancer's foul work would be done before Conan reached him. Powers of darkness would be loosed on the land.
Something about the way the last beast had disappeared tugged at him. It reminded him of... what? The barrier to the Blasted Lands. Feverishly he dug into his pouch-it had to be there!-and drew out the small leather bag of powder Samarra had given him. Almost did he laugh. If nightmares were loosed to walk, still this time Jhandar would not escape. Undoing the rawhide strings that held the bag closed, he carefully tossed it ahead of him, toward the oblivious, chanting sorcerer. On the very edge of the burning dome the bag fell, open, contents spilling broadly. It had to be enough.
"Your vengeance, Samarra," Conan murmured, and slowly, coldly, spoke the words the shamaness had taught him. As the last syllable was pronounced, a shimmer sprang into being above the powder.
Jhandar's words of incantation faltered. For a brief moment he stared at the shimmer. Then he screamed.
"No! Not yet! Not till I am gone!"
Through that shimmer, that weakened area of the wards that held the Pool of the Ultimate, flowed something. The mind could not encompass it, the eye refused to see it. Silver flecks danced in air that was too azure. No more did it seem, yet an ever-deepening channel was etched into the marble floor as it came from the pool. It touched pillars about the circumference of the pool; abruptly half pillars dangled in the air. The ceiling creaked. It washed against a wall, and stones ceased to exist. The wall and part of the ceiling above collapsed. The rubble fell into that inexorable tide of nonexistence, and was not.
Some measure of sanity returned to Conan in the face of that horror. Part of it moved toward him, now.
Desperately he sliced with his broadsword at the undying arms that gripped his legs.
Jhandar turned to run, but as he ran the fringes of that flowing thing touched him. Only the fringes, the outer mists, yet full-throated he screamed, like a woman put to torture or a soul damned. Saffron robes melted like dew, and on his legs flesh disappeared at every touch of that mist. Bone gleamed whitely, and he fell shrieking to match the cries of all the victims he had ever laid on his black altar.
With a groan the far end of the chamber collapsed into vapor, thoug
h with less sound than Jhandar's screams. Conan redoubled his efforts, hacking at the tough flesh. The last sinew was severed; the unnatural grip was gone.
As the Cimmerian rolled to his feet and dove for the entrance passage, the invisible silver-flecked tide washed over the spot where he had been. Ignoring his gashed thigh, Conan ran, the sounds of Jhandar shrieking to the gods for mercy echoing in his ears.
When the Cimmerian reached the altar chamber, Sharak was peering down the passage. From a safe distance. "What was that screaming?" the astrologer asked, then added thoughtfully, "It's stopped."
"Jhandar's dead," Conan said, looking for Yasbet. He found her slicing the dead cult member's robes into some sort of garment, using the very dagger Davinia had intended for her heart. The blonde knelt fearfully nearby, bruised but unbloodied, gagged with the remnants of her own golden silks. A strip of the same material bound her hands; another circled her neck as a leash, with the end firmly in Yasbet's grasp.
Suddenly the earth moved. The floor heaved, twisted, and sagged toward the chamber from which Conan had fled.
"It's eating its way into the bowels of the earth," he muttered.
Sharak eyed him quizzically. "It? What? Nothing could-"
Again the ground danced, but this time it did not stop. Lamps crashed from the ceiling, splattering patches of burning oil. Dust rose, beaten into the air by the quivering of the floor, a floor that was tilting more with every heartbeat.
"No time," Conan shouted, grabbing Yasbet's hand. "Run!" And he suited his actions to his words, drawing Yasbet behind him, and perforce Davinia, for the dark-eyed woman would not loosen her grip on the blonde's leash. With surprising swiftness Sharak followed.
Down crumbling halls they ran, past flame-filled rooms, priceless rugs and rare tapestries the fuel. Dust filled the air, and shards of stone from collapsing ceilings.
The Conan Compendium Page 256
