But some of their magick had survived; it was said to lie at the heart of the cult of Set, the Great Serpent.
Conan stepped closer, without venturing into the clean circle. Magick had to be alive here, to make that circle; he would not tempt fate. He walked around the statue, quieting his own cold doubts, and wishing that Bowenu would either command his quaking limbs or fall down in a faint. Ancient magick, like old predators, could scent fear, or so Conan's experience had led him to believe.
Was this a serpent-man? The scales and the eyes said yes. More spoke otherwise. The statue had the air of an aging mercenary, weary from long and thankless service in liege to succession of close-fisted masters, yet faithful to his trust and those who followed him. If this was a serpent-man, then there had been some virtue in at least one of that kind”or else a sculptor able to imagine it, which was far from the same thing. (Once, in Argos, Conan had sat for his portrait. When he saw what the painter had done, he threw the painting out the window and nearly hurled the painter after it.)
What unsettled Conan most was not what the statue showed. It was the statues very existence. Had Scyra been treacherous all along, using her mind-touch to guide him and his band to the cave of the statue her father planned to reanimate? Reanimate as a champion of the Picts, by a blood-sacrifice of Conan and his band?
The thought made the cave seem even colder than the night outside, and the witchlight harsher. Conan felt the urge to step into the circle and push the statue from its base. If it toppled and shattered, all the spells at Lysenius's command could hardly bring it to life”
Conan leapt into the circle and threw his full weight against the statue. He might as well have flung himself against the walls of the cavern. Three times he tried to topple the image, three times he felt nothing unnatural but gained plenty of natural bruises and scrapes, and three times the statue did not so much as quiver.
"Conan," Bowenu said at last, "how long will you tempt the gods?"
"Until they're tired of being tempted and either strike me dead or topple this misshapen stone!" the Cimmerian growled. But he did not leap again. He still felt nothing amiss within the circle, but in the air around him he sensed power, great and old, leashed for now but dreadful if ever loosed.
He looked at the statue. It showed no trace of his efforts to topple it. The dust he had tracked into the circle lay where it had fallen”until suddenly it vanished, with a faint ruddy glow, so fleeting that Conan could have sworn he imagined it. Bowenu's wide eyes and trust in his own senses told him otherwise.
They left the dead Picts lying where they had set them down and returned the way they had come. "It will be a bold ghost that roams about under the eyes of that statue," Conan said.
They were only halfway along their return journey when Conan heard Pictish drums and war cries, then, louder and closer, angry Bamula voices. He and Bowenu looked at one another and broke into a run.
***
Lysenius thanked gods he had not worshipped in many years that the two spells he needed most this night could be cast without giving outward signs.
Outward signs of working magick would alert his Pictish guards. His reputation might daunt them, might hold their spears, arrows, and knives. It would do nothing for the chakan sent by Vurag Yan. He saw the creature sitting on its haunches on the other side of the fire, eyes glowing like the coals of the flames of the underworld. At a command from its master, it would be over the fire and its claws at his throat before he could take a deep breath.
The moment he could risk movement or speech, Lysenius resolved, he would put an end to that chakan and all others of its kind. Without his pets, the shaman would lose much of his power for mischief.
Lysenius gathered his thoughts, and this time his concentration on the statue in the cave did not slip away. "By the power of the Seven Waters and the Five Mountains, by Iblis, Mitra, Crom, and Set, by the Curse of the Unborn Phoenix
The incantation resounded in his mind as though his head had been a cave into which a herald cried messages. He kept his face carefully blank, a mask behind which all the magick in the world might have hidden, and his breathing regular. Even his hands lay in his lap, as motionless as the sleeping puppies he had once shown Scyra when she was a child of five.
In the corner of his mind not given over to magick, Lysenius prayed again. This time it was to no god in particular. It was only a wish that when this night's work was done, he might seem to his daughter as he once had. Not for long, but even a single day of his daughter's former love would be enough.
He could not ask more. Too much lay between them now, and regardless of that, she was a grown woman, no longer a maiden either, if her ghost-voice told the truth. (And had that been the Cimmerians doing?)
But however much lay between them before this night, he now saw clearly. He might yet find a way to take his vengeance for his wife's death. Gentle as she had been, she deserved that at least. But he would no longer put Scyra in harm's way to gain it. He would take her out of danger first, then fight whatever battles might be needed when there was no longer risk of her being one of his enemies' victims.
Would that he could use the Crystal of Thraz! It would make easier, if not less perilous, this work of animating the statue by sheer will, without a blood-sacrifice.
Lysenius knew the gem was in the tent; he had touched it with his mind.
He did not dare bring it out with the grip of that same mind. No outward signs could be allowed to warn the Picts that magick prowled the night.
Also, the Picts did not seem to know the uses of the Crystals of Thraz.
Such uses were not in their magicks. The longer Lysenius kept the gem a secret, the better his hopes of using it to some purpose.
"By the fifth element, commanded by the gods for warriors, which is called mud. By Ishtar and Semiramis
Lysenius stirred enough to lick dry lips and take a deep breath. From far off, something had touched his mind. He opened himself to that touch, and recognized it. He thought a greeting.
In a distant cave in the land of the Snake Picts, a curiously wrought statue quivered on its plinth.
Eighteen
Conan's ears gave him no warning that the statue was on the march. The howling of the Picts drowned out all other sounds, including their Own drums, the screams of their wounded and dying, and the war cries of the Bamulas.
So far, none of the Bamulas were down, and even those wounded in the running battle on the hillside were able to fight. It was not hard for a lame man to fight sitting down, and those with bows were making as good practice sitting as they might have done standing. Indeed, against the wall of flesh the Picts offered as they tried to cram themselves into the cave, a blind man could have made good practice.
Conan burst into the fight with a Cimmerian cry that sent echoes crashing about the cave and for a moment rose even above the Pictish howls. He flung his bow and quiver aside and snatched sword and dagger from his belt as he ran.
A Pict leapt over the first line of Bamulas, escaped being spitted on the spears of the second line, and stumbled into Conan. Conan brought his knee up and the Pict howled in a very different voice and doubled in the middle. A dagger-weighted Cimmerian fist crashed down on the back of the Pict's neck, snapping it as a mastiff would a rat.
Two more Picts who tried to follow the first died on Bamula spears and made the rock underfoot still more slippery with their blood. Conan braced himself as enough Picts surged forward to force the Bamulas of the first line back onto the second, and the second onto Conan. He held the two joined lines by sheer barbaric strength, arms stretched wide and sword and dagger outthrust.
"Hold there, you fools!" he roared. "Don't give them any more room to spread out! Force them to come to us a few at a time!"
Bowenu came up on one side of him, and Govindue joined him on the other. They also braced themselves and set their spears to work, darting the already-dripping iron points through gaps in the Bamulas ahead of them. With a sidelong glanc
e, Conan saw Vuona backed against a wall. She had apparently speared one Pict in the belly and was unmistakably hamstringing a second. The Pict looked on her with stark horror, as if expecting her to begin on his manhood next.
The Picts at last gave way under the spears. Before the next attack surged forward, Conan moved up to the first line, then beyond it. Like a rock in rapids, he stood above the next onrush. In moments, his steel dripped red. He hewed, slashed, kicked, howled, and wove a circle of death around himself that snatched more than a score of Picts from the next attack and strew them across the floor. Some moaned until Vuona cut their throats. A few dragged themselves toward the mouth of the cave, where the archers had clear shots and finished them.
From Conan to its mouth, the floor of the cave was now packed with bodies and all but awash with blood. Very little of the blood came from the defenders, a few of whom had suffered minor wounds but whose fighting strength was undiminished. There would be no retrieving arrows beyond the cave mouth this time, but this fight was not going to be won or lost by archery.
Indeed, it seemed to Conan unlikely that it was going to be won by anything at the command of the Bamulas. The Owls would surely lose so many warriors that in their wrath, they would turn against Lysenius and Scyra, and so avenge Conan and his band, but that seemed about the best a man could hope for now.
It was then that Conan heard a grating sound from within the cave, as of stone on stone. Then he noticed that the witchlight had begun to flicker, as would a lantern in a strong wind.
The grating noise came again, louder. Conan looked down the tunnel and saw a shadow creeping across one wall. It had no shape he could name, or indeed wished to name, but every time he heard the grating sound, the shadow moved.
Then the grating gave way to a long, harsh squeal, and something more solid than the shadow lurched into Conan's sight. It staggered to the wall and leaned against it for a moment, then drew itself upright again and took another grating step.
The statue was walking toward them! It lurched like a drunken pirate, but no pirate ever loomed so tall. Conan saw that what he had taken for a scaly skin was more likely a close-fitting, all-encompassing coat of mail. The face bore no more expression than before, and those eyes still seemed unnatural in any face asking to be called human.
Conan stood his ground. He really belonged in the rear now, facing the statue. Human flesh and steel wielded by a man might be as futile against the animated statue as it had been against the stationary one.
Still, a good push ought to find any weakness in its balance”could the creation rise if it fell?
He saw the staring eyes of the Bamulas. Most of them were looking to their rear rather than to their front. If any of the dead Picts came back to life, they might have an easy victory over his band. The Picts outside might also be victorious if the Bamulas' courage finally broke and the men chose to take their chances with darkness and Picts rather than with this ponderous creation of sorcery.
The Bamulas would have to pass Conan if they ran, and he would not allow that. There were not many things worse than facing death by sorcery, but death at the hands of Picts was among them.
The statue came on. The eyes of the Bamulas could grow no wider. Some of the warriors dripped sweat, in spite of the coolness of the night and the cave. Govindue alone seemed to be keeping his eyes to the front and his spear in his hand.
One of the archers loosed an arrow. It was at such a range that neither the blind, the crippled, nor babes in arms could have missed the target. The arrow struck the statue on its chest”and the arrowhead vanished with a sharp crack and an eye-piercing globe of blue fire. The fire danced on the statues chest for a moment, then vanished.
A sulphurous reek set everyone coughing and sneezing. The shaft of the arrow clattered to the floor, burned entirely away for a third of its length and charred for the rest. Smoke drifted up from it”until the statues next step crushed the arrow into a dark smear on the stone.
Even the Cimmerian's courage did not keep him from shuddering at the thought of what would have happened to any man who had touched the statue with naked steel. It must be that steel warred with the magick in the animated image. What about bare hands?
That thought had hardly entered the Cimmerian's mind when a Bamula seemed to have the same idea. He ran forward, leaping as he reached the statue, arms outstretched, hands poised to grip the images arm. Likely enough, he would try to catch the statue taking a step, off-balance, where even a little extra weight pulling in the wrong direction could topple a man”
The statue was not a man. It proved that all over again in the next moment. The Bamula leapt and gripped one arm. The arm rose, lifting the Bamula with it until the warrior dangled with his feet off the ground, like a child held by a parents arm.
"Let loose, you cursed fool!" Conan bellowed.
His warning came too late. The statue brought its other arm around, too fast for even the Cimmerians eye to follow. Its stone hand smashed into the Bamula's temple, and the man's skull cracked like an eggshell.
Blood, brains, and pieces of bone showered the others.
The statue now gripped the man with both hands. Conan saw that the killing hand was smeared with red”but the red was disappearing as if the blood was soaking into the stone as fast as water into the sands of a desert. The other hand gripped so tightly that the fingertips vanished into the warriors dark skin”but no blood flowed.
A moment later, Conan saw that the Bamula was shrinking, his skin wrinkling like a grape too long in the sun. As his comrades watched in gape-mouthed horror, the dead Bamula shriveled away until he was only a dried sack of skin dangling from the statues hands.
And was it Conan's imagination, or did the statue seem a trifle larger, and was there a light in its eyes that had not been there before?
It was not his imagination, and indeed, it made sense”as much sense as sorcery or madness ever could, and this was both! The statue had been brought to life by some spell, most likely a conjuration by Lysenius, without a blood-sacrifice. That did not mean it could do without one forever. If no sacrifice was offered, it intended to take the blood itself.
At least the statue did not seem to be searching for prey at the moment. Another Bamula ran toward it and without a word from Conan, he darted under the reaching arms and rose to his full height behind the statue, unharmed. What he could do there seemed a mystery, if grappling barehanded was as futile as wielding weapons.
But it showed that they could pass the statue and leave it a clear path to the cave mouth, the hillside, and the waiting Picts. Likely, Lysenius had no more command of the statue than he had of the Snakes.
Running free, the stone image would slaughter Picts and Hyborians with equal strength, feeding on each life it ended. It would have to be brought down sooner rather than later, and Conan's men could do their part.
Tonight, though, he'd lost to the statue the first of his Bamulas so far! He'd be cursed for a Stygian if he was going to lose more men, not when there were half the Picts in the wilderness for the statue's amusement. While it thus amused itself, he and his people were going to break free of the Picts and continue their journey south. Neither Scyra nor Lysenius would have anything to say about that!
The statue seemed too intent on making its way into the open air to spend any effort in seeking victims. One man actually blundered against it as he tried to duck under the arms, and the hand closed on his hair.
The statue made no attempt to draw the man closer, however, nor did it bring the other arm around this time. The man cursed and clawed and ripped his hair from his scalp, but in the end, broke free.
Vuona went, three more men went, and then there was no one at all with Conan save the statue, so close he could almost have touched it with his dagger. He did no such thing; he gathered himself and, like a panther, leapt past it.
He landed rolling on his shoulders, and kicked out with his legs. Both feet slammed into the back of the statue's knees. The image quivered,
pain stabbed through the Cimmerian, and the shock jarred him from his toes to the crown of his head. He rolled again and stood, testing first one foot, then the other, to see that they moved properly.
No hurt to him, save the sort of bruises that he could shrug off for now. None to the statue, either. As invulnerable and implacable as ever, it marched over the fallen Picts, pushing aside the low barricade the Bamulas had made of their enemy's bodies. Conan watched to see if it would soak up the blood, bones, and flesh of these Picts, but it only shoved the corpses aside or crushed them under its ponderous weight.
"Too long dead for it, I think," Govindue said. Conan started at the sound of a human voice, and realized that no one had spoken a word since his warning to the now-dead Bamula.
"Be ready to follow me out of the cave the moment that witling wizards toy meets the Picts," the Cimmerian said. "While they're fighting it, we'll have a better chance to break free than we'll ever have again."
None of the Bamulas looked as if they thought the chance was very good, nor did Conan quarrel with them. But judging by the fear the statue put into him and the Bamulas, the Picts would be driven half-mad. That was no fit spirit for meeting a desperate foe at night”and Conan knew that he and the Bamulas would be desperate to the last degree.
The grating and scraping of the statue's footsteps was fading now as it climbed the boulders. It was almost beyond the witchlight, although Conan would have sworn that it had begun to glow with a light of its own. Soon it would be in the open, visible to the Picts.
"Be ready to run as you've never run before. We won't leave anyone alive, but we won't halt for any laggards, either."
Even the lame met his eyes and nodded. By Crom, this was fine company for one's last battle! If they'd been twenty thousand instead of fewer than twenty, he'd have been ready to clear the whole wilderness of Picts and present it as a gift to the Bossonians.
***
Lysenius could not have described in the words of any language known to men how he knew that the statue was animated but uncontrolled. Perhaps uncontrollable, at least from this camp, half a day's march from the cave. If so, certainly a menace to more folk than Picts” and even if a menace only to the Picts, that made Scyra no safer as long as Vurag Yan's chakans held her in the camp of the Owls¦
The Conan Compendium Page 421
