As he considered his next counter to Illyana's spells, his staff suddenly flew
from his hand. Before he could regain his grip, it plummeted down to the Jewel, into it, and into the earth beneath the Jewel!
Eremius was still gaping when the ground erupted with a crash and roar of shattering stone. Dust and rock chips stung as his staff flew into the air, part of a geyser of stone and earth. Eremius lunged for the staff, plucked it out of the air, and hastily backed away from the Jewel.
The Jewel itself now seemed to dissolve into a pool of emerald light, flowing like some thick liquid in an invisible bowl. A disagreeably high-pitched whine rose from it. Eremius cringed, as he would have at an insect trapped in his ear.
Then he sighed, stepped back, and began to test the fitness of his staff for use. As it passed one test after another, his confidence began to return.
With the staff alone, he could still command the Transformed well enough to doom Crimson Springs. He could not command the Jewel, for Illyana had bound his Jewel and hers into a spell of mutual opposition. She also could not command her Jewel, and had no more power against him than he against her.
Did that matter to her? Had she sought to destroy his Jewel, even at the risk of her own? She had always seemed as ambitious as himself to possess both the Jewels. Was she now ready to abandon supreme power for a modest prize? Being known as she who destroyed the Jewels of Kurag would certainly bring little, compared to what might come from possessing them both!
Enough. The Transformed awaited his commands. Eremius composed himself and began forming a picture of the village in his mind.
The door of Illyana's chamber quivered, then fell off its hinges. Conan and Raihna leaped back. Raihna nearly knocked the innkeeper back down the stairs he had just mounted.
The innkeeper looked at the ruined door, rolled his eyes to the ceiling, then handed Raihna a basket.
"Mostly bread and cheese. The cooks not only fled, they took most of the larder with them!" The innkeeper sat down and buried his head in his hands.
Illyana staggered out of her chamber and nearly fell into Conan's arms. After a moment she took a deep breath, then knelt and tore the cover off the basket.
Without bothering to don any garments, she began wolfing bread and cheese.
Conan waited until she stopped for breath, then handed her a cup of wine. It vanished in two gulps, followed by the rest of the basket's contents. At last Illyana sat up, looked ruefully at the empty basket, then stood.
"I'm sorry, but―Cimmerian, what are you laughing at?"
"You're the first sorceress I've ever seen who'd admit to being hungry!"
A brief smile was the only reply. Raihna went to gather Illyana's clothes, while Conan handed the empty basket to the innkeeper.
"Again? I suppose I can expect to be paid by the time King Yildiz's grandson ascends the―"
A furious pounding on the street door broke into the man's speech. The innkeeper rose and handed the basket to Conan.
"Time to go down and play my part. Ah well, if I can no longer keep an inn, there are always temple pageants needing actors! Best make haste, though. I
heard some outside say that Lord Achmai had reached town. If he takes a hand, I will not make an enemy―"
"Achmai?"
"So they said. He's a great name in these parts. I've heard―"
"I've heard all the tales told of him, and more besides," Conan snapped. "Now―is there a place on the roof where I can overlook the town without being seen?"
"Yes. But what―?"
"Show me."
"If this is against Lord―"
"It's for all of us! Now choose. Show me to the roof, keep the rest of your promises, and take your chances with Achmai. Or be stubborn, fear him more than me, and die here."
The innkeeper looked at Conan's drawn sword, measured his chances of escaping it, and judged wisely.
"Down the hall and to the right. I'll show you."
From downstairs, the pounding redoubled, and curses joined it.
Bora's own rasping breath drowned Out the struggles of those around him to climb the hill. He was younger and stronger than most, but tonight he had run five times as far as any.
Any, that is, except the demons, and they knew not human limits. Most of them, at least―the demons could be slain, hurt, or made cautious. Otherwise, they seemed as insensate as an avalanche or an earthquake.
Stopping to look downhill, Bora saw most of the laggards had somebody helping
them. Thank Mitra, the Powder had done its work well. The people of Crimson Springs might be homeless, but they were still a village, not a mob ready to fight each other for the smallest chance of safety.
Bora waited until most of the laggards had passed him. Then he walked downhill, to meet the half-dozen strongest youths and men who'd formed themselves into a rearguard. To his surprise, Ivram was among them.
"I thought you were long gone," Bora nearly shouted.
"You thought an old fat man like me could outstrip a youth with winged feet like yours? Truly, Bora, your wits are deserting you."
"He came back down to join us," Kemal said. "We spoke as you doubtless will, but he would not listen."
"No, so best save your breath for climbing the hill again," Ivram added. "I confess I had hopes of taking one more look at a demon. The more we know―"
"He hoped to make one senseless with the last of the Powder, so we could carry it to Fort Zheman!" one of the men shouted. "Ivram, have you gone mad?"
"I don't think so. But―would anyone but a madman have imagined those demons, before―?"
"For the Master!"
Four robed shapes plunged down the hill toward Bora and the rearguard. Their human speech and their robes told him that they were not demons. The swords gleaming in their hands showed them to be dangerous foes.
Bora's hands danced. A stone leaped into the pouch of his sling. The sling
whined into invisibility, then hurled the stone at the men. Darkness and haste baffled Bora's eye and arm. He heard the stone clatter futilely on the hillside.
Then the four swordsmen were among the rearguard, slashing furiously at men who had only one sword for all seven of them. The man who had complained of Ivram's plans was the first to fall, face and neck gaping and bloody. As he fell, he rolled under the feet of a second swordsman. His arms twined around the man's legs and his teeth sank into a booted calf. The swordsman howled, a howl cut off abruptly as a club in Kemal's hands smashed his skull.
A second swordsman died before the others realized they faced no easy prey.
Tough hillmen with nothing to lose were not a contemptible foe at two to one odds.
The third swordsman's flight took him twenty paces before three villagers caught him. All four went down in a writhing, cursing tangle that ended in a choking scream. Two of the villagers rose, supporting the third. The swordsman did not rise.
The fourth swordsman must have thought himself safe, in the last moment before a stone from Bora's sling crushed his skull.
Bora was counting the stones in his pouch when a faint voice spoke his name.
"Bora. Take the rest of the Powder."
"Ivram!"
The priest lay on his back, blood trickling from his mouth. Bora held his gaze on the man's pale face, away from the gaping wounds in belly and chest.
"Take it. Please. And―rebuild my shrine, when you come back. You will, I know
it."
Bora gripped the priest's hand, wishing that he could at least do something for the pain. Perhaps it had not yet struck, but with such a wound, when it did―As if Bora's thoughts had been written in the air, Ivram smiled. "Do not worry, Bora. We servants of Mitra have our ways."
He began to chant verses in a strange guttural tongue. Halfway through the fourth verse he bit his lip, coughed, and closed his eyes. He contrived a few words of a fifth verse, then his breathing ceased.
Bora knelt beside the priest until Kemal put a hand
on his shoulder.
"Come along, Bora. We can't stay here until the demons get hungry."
"I won't leave him here for them!"
"Who said we would do anything of the kind?"
Bora saw now that the other unwounded men had taken off their cloaks. Kemal was taking off his when Bora stopped him. "Wait. I heard a horse on the hill. Did you save Windmaster?"
"I freed him. The rest he did himself. I always said that horse had more wits than most men!"
Not to mention more strength and speed than any other mount in the village.
"Kemal, we need someone to ride to Fort Zheman. Can it be you?"
"Let me water Windmaster, and I'll be off."
"Mitra―" The words died in Bora's throat. He would not praise Mitra tonight, not when the god had let his good servant Ivram die like a dog.
Conan crouched behind the chimney of the inn. Enough of the mob now carried torches to show clearly all he needed to see. Too many, perhaps. If he could see, he might also be seen, for all that he'd blacked his skin with soot from the hearth in Illyana's chamber.
Both the mob and Achmai's men were where they had been the last time he looked.
Most likely they would not move further―until he made them move.
Time to do just that.
Conan crawled across the roof to the rear of the inn and shouted, "All right! We hold the stables. They won't be in any danger from there!"
As he returned to the front, Conan heard with pleasure a shout from Achmai's ranks.
"Who said that? Sergeants, count your men!"
Conan allowed the counting to be well begun, then shouted, imitating a sergeant's voice, "Ha! I've two missing."
Then, imitating the captain: "These town pigs have made away with them. Draw swords! That's two insults to Lord Achmai!"
Angry, confused shouting ran along the line of Achmai's men. Conan raised his voice, to imitate a youth.
"Achmai's hired swords want to save their witch friends. Well, take that, you sheep rapers!"
A roof tile placed ready to hand flew over the heads of the mob, driven by a stout Cimmerian arm. It plummeted into the ranks of Achmai's riders, striking a
man from his saddle.
"Fools!" the captain screamed. "We're friends. We want―"
His protests came too late. Stones followed Conan's tile. A horse reared, tossing his rider from the saddle. Comrades of the fallen men drew their swords and spurred their mounts forward. When they reached the edge of the mob, they began laying about them.
The mob in turn writhed like a nest of serpents and growled like a den of hungry bears. One bold spirit thrust a torch at a swordsman's horse. It threw its rider, who vanished among dozens of hands clutching at him. Conan heard his screams, ending suddenly.
The fight between Achmai's men and the mob had drawn enough blood now. It would take the leaders on either side longer to stop it than it would take Conan and his people to flee Haruk.
Conan ran to the rear of the inn, uncaring of being seen. "Ride!" he shouted at the stable door. It squealed open, and Raihna led the others toward the street.
Illyana came last. As she reached the gate, curses and shouts told Conan that the street was not wholly deserted. Illyana waved, then put her head down and her spurs in.
Conan leaped from the roof of the inn to the roof of the woodshed and landed rolling. He let himself roll, straight off the woodshed on to straw bales. His horse was already free; he flew into the saddle without touching the stirrups.
He had the horse up to a canter and his sword drawn as he passed the gate. To the people in the street, it must have seemed that the blackfaced Cimmerian was
a demon conjured up by the witch. They might hate witchcraft, but they loved their lives more. They scattered, screaming.
Conan took a street opposite to the one Illyana had used and did not slow below a gallop until he was out of town. It was as well, for he had not gone unseen by men with their wits about them. Torches and fires showed half a dozen men riding hard after him.
Conan sheathed his sword and unslung his bow. Darkness did not make for the best practice. He still crippled three horses and emptied one saddle before his pursuers saw the wisdom of letting him go.
Conan slung his bow, counted his arrows, then dismounted to let his horse blow and drink. His own drink was the last of the innkeeper's wine. When the leather bottle was empty, he threw it away, mounted again, and trotted away across country.
Eremius raised his staff. The silver head bore gouges and scars from its passage through rocks and earth, but its powers seemed undiminished.
From his other wrist the Jewel glowed, its fire subdued by the dawn light but steady as ever. Once again he considered whether Illyana sought harm to his Jewel, even at cost to her own? That was a question he would surely ask, when the time came to wring from her all her knowledge.
This morning, it was only important that his Jewel was intact. Now he could regain some part of his victory. Not all, because too many of the villagers yet lived. But enough to give new heart to his human servants and even the
Transformed, if their minds could grasp what they were about to see.
Eremius rested the head of his staff on the Jewel. Fire blazed forth, stretched out, then gathered itself into a ball and flew across the village. It flew onward, up the hill beyond the village and over its crest.
"Long live the Master!"
Human shouts mingled with the raw-throated howls of the Transformed. The crest of the hill shuddered, heaved itself upward, then burst apart into a hundred flying boulders, each the size of a hut.
The end of that thrice-cursed priest's shrin!
If the man lived, he would have an end nearly as hard as Illyana's. He and the youth who helped him cast the Powder and free the villagers!
Eremius would recognize them if he saw them again, too. He had torn their faces out of the prisoners' minds before letting the Transformed tear their bodies.
Slowly, too, with both minds and bodies. The Transformed had not learned to love the agony of their prey, but they could be taught.
Meanwhile―Staff and Jewel met again. Once, twice, thrice balls of emerald fire leaped forth. They formed a triangle encompassing the village, then settled to the roofs of three houses.
Where they settled, flames spewed from the solid stone. Eremius lifted staff and Jewel a final time, and purple smoke rose above the flames.
Stonefire was smokeless by nature. Eremius wanted to paint Crimson Spring's fate across the sky, for all to see.
Maryam lifted her eyes from Ivram's dead face to the eastern sky. Those eyes were red but dry. Whatever weeping she had done, it was finished before Bora came.
"A child," she said in a rasping voice.
"Who?" Bora knew his own voice was barely a croak. Sleep had begun to seem a thing told of in legends but never done by mortal men.
"The demons' master. A vicious child, who can't win, so he smashes the toys."
"Just―just so he can't smash us," Bora muttered. He swayed.
Two strong arms came around him, steadying him, then lowering him to the ground.
"Sit, Bora. I can do well enough by a guest, as little as I have."
He heard as from a vast distance the clink of metal on metal and the gurgle of liquid pouring. A cup of wine seemed to float out of the air before his face. He smelled herbs in the wine.
"Only a posset. Drink."
"I can't sleep. The people―"
"You must sleep. We need you with your wits about you." One hand too strong to resist gripped Bora's head, the other held the cup to his lips. Sweet wine and pungent herbs overpowered his senses, then his will. He drank.
Sleep took him long before the cup was empty.
Conan reached the meeting place as dawn gave way to day. Raihna was asleep, Dessa and Massouf had found the strength for another quarrel, and only Illyana
greeted him.
She seemed to have regained all her strength and los
t ten years of age. Her step as she came downhill was as light as that of her dancer's image, and her smile as friendly.
"Well done, Conan, if you will accept my praise. That was such good work that even a sorceress can recognize it."
In spite of himself, Conan smiled. "I thank you, Illyana. Have you any new knowledge of our friend Eremius?"
"Only that he once more commands his Jewel, as I do mine. That is not altogether bad. Some part of―of what I sensed last night―told me his Jewel had been in danger."
"Wouldn't smashing Eremius's Jewel be winning the battle?"
"At too great a price. The Jewels are among the supreme creations of all magic.
To grind them to powder as if they were pebbles, to lose all that might be learned by using them wisely together―I would feel unclean if I had a hand in it."
Conan would not trust his tongue. He already felt unclean, from too long in the company of too much magic. Now he felt a sharp pang of suspicion. Perhaps the Jewels could teach much, to one fit to learn. Likely enough, though, it would be what their creators or discoverers wanted learned.
Something of Conan's thoughts must have shown on his face. Illyana feigned doubt.
"Also, it is said that destroying one Jewel without destroying the other makes
the survivor far more dangerous. No one can command it."
"A fine mess of 'it is saids' the Jewels carry with them! Didn't you learn a little truth while you studied with Eremius?"
Illyana's face turned pale and she seemed about to choke. Conari remembered Raihna's advice and started to apologize.
"No," Illyana said. "You have the right to ask, a right I grant to few. I also have the duty to answer. I learned as much as I could, but Eremius gave me little help. What he wished me to learn was―other matters."
She shook herself like a wet dog, and the nightmares seemed to pass. "Where do we go now, Conan?"
"Fort Zheman, and swiftly."
"A garrison may show us scant hospitality, unless we use Mishrak's name."
"Time we did that anyway. We're close to country where we need mountain horses.
Besides, we owe it to Dessa to leave her among enough men to keep her happy!"
The Conan Compendium Page 300
