The light also drove every vestige of darkness from the chamber. In that hellish illumination, one might have seen that the walls of the chamber were as bare as the Lady, but too smooth to be the work of nature. Here again was the work of races long dead, and perhaps leaving the world the better for their passing.
The light began to dance, and at the same time turn color. The crimson faded, and an unwholesome shade of purple took its place. Then the purple faded to a livid blue that might have seemed natural had it not swirled and danced like a mist being blown away by a strong wind. The Mist rose the height of two men from the Eye, but did not reach a finger's breadth over the edge of the hole.
The Mist might have been held within a bottle of marvelously clear glass, except that nothing confined it save the Lady's magic”and perhaps the will of the Mist of Doom.
The Lady was now as devoid of the power to move or speak as the Maidens were. In this moment her magic passed directly from her mind to the Mist, or not at all. With arts learned long ago and in great suffering, she drove down to the lowest levels of her mind any fear of what might happen if the Mist did not respond as it had in the past.
In the next moment, the Lady's fear and the cup alike were gone. The Mist whirled until it seemed only a column of blue light rising from the Eye. Then it shot up until it reached the ceiling and sprayed across it, more like a jet of water than something as intangible as mist.
The cup burst aloft with the rising Mist. It was still beyond the Lady to move, but she turned the focus of her mind from the Mist to the cup.
She shaped her will into invisible fingers, slid them under the cup, and held it as the Mist drew back into the Eye.
Only then was the bond broken, and the Lady able to use her body, limbs and mouth alike, to conjure the cup to a gentle landing. It was some while before the Maidens came out to pick it up, because they had to wait until the Lady herself ceased trembling.
When they had the cup safely within the net again, they gathered around their mistress. They did not need to speak, only lift her gently and guide her back to the tunnel. Perhaps one of them might have looked at the rock pressing down overhead and uttered a short prayer to her patron gods that they all live to stand under the open sky again.
If they did, it did not concern the Mist of Doom.
Enough time for a hasty meal had already crawled by, the slower for the sun. Soon it would be long enough for a banquet since the Turanians at Conan's rear had attacked, and still those before him remained low or out of bowshot.
Conan wondered if some cunning climber among the Turanians had found a way up the far side of the rocks and led his comrades into a battle at close quarters. Or at least high enough to lie in wait, ready to swarm forward when their comrades attacked from the south.
They would learn a harsh lesson about attacking hillmen among rocks if they had been so bold. But teaching that lesson might well keep the Afghulis too busy to help Conan.
He was about to call up to Farad, to bid him scout the north face of the rocks, when a trumpet sounded far to the Turanian right, out of Conan's sight. A brazen reply floated on the breeze from the left, the trumpeter as invisible as his comrade.
Plain to anyone but a blind man was a score or more of Turanians gathering themselves to plunge forward in a desperate attack. Conan had barely finished counting them when he saw a half-score of horsemen caracoling just outside bowshot. At first he thought the reinforcements had arrived. Then he recognized some of the Turanians' headdresses.
The mounted men, it seemed, were a second wave, to follow on the heels of the first one. Conan's respect for the enemy captain rose higher. A good plan”if the first wave could ever be persuaded to move forward.
Then in the next moment that work of persuasion was done, and the Turanians leaped from cover and ran toward the rocks. Conan nocked an arrow, shot, nocked another, shot it, and was nocking a third when arrows from above tumbled two more Turanians in the sand.
That made one in five down before they even reached close quarters, but no more arrows came from above and the Turanians came on as if a purse of gold lay ahead or demons snapped at their heels. Conan continued shooting. The Turanians were coming as straight toward him as if the rocks were glass or a tavern dancer's veils, covering all, concealing nothing.
One more Turanian fell, but to no mortal hurt; he unslung his bow and began scattering arrows about the rocks above Conan's head. His comrades ran on”and now from above, Conan heard familiar Turanian war cries, Afghuli curses, and oaths in the tongues of more than a few other folk.
The Turanian host was like the gallows”it refused no man who came to it. Conan owed his own career in Turan to that habit.
Only moments after battle was joined above, it was joined below. The remaining Turanians crossed to the foot of the rocks unmolested from above. Now even an Afghuli with no foes closer to hand could hardly strike at them, or they at him.
The bow had not, however, made other and more ancient weapons harmless.
How many rocks the Afghulis had piled ready, Conan did not know, but they seemed to rain from the sky. Three Turanians went down, two rose again, and one of these died as Conan flung a smaller stone to crack his skull.
Now the Cimmerian's long legs drove his feet against one of the boulders placed ready. It squealed like a slaughtered pig as it rubbed past another rock, then reached the open slope and began to roll.
Before it was well launched, Conan threw his feet against a second boulder. Then a third, and on to a fourth that needed one foot and both arms. Even the Cimmerian's thews strained at the last rock, fresh sweat made slime of the dust on his forehead, and for a dreadful moment it seemed that the boulder would be his match.
Then it followed the others. Conan leaped back as arrows whistled through the space he had occupied. He had just time to see half the Turanians scattering before the onslaught of the boulders, before the vanguard of the other half reached him.
Now it was the deadliest kind of close-quarters fighting, with all the art of a tavern brawl but much more steel and therefore far more bloodshed. Conan had two aims: to kill as many Turanians as he could, and to keep the fight so tangled that no Turanian with a bow could end the fight with a single arrow.
Conan had not despised bowmen as cowards even before he learned the art of the bow, for the art of the sling was well-known in his native land.
But no one could doubt that a well-aimed shaft had brought many a fine swordsman to an untimely end.
Conan would accept his end when the gods called him to it. But their call would reach him among the ranks of his enemies, sword in hand.
The Cimmerian had a head's advantage in height and two spans in reach over the stoutest of his opponents. Add that his broadsword was better fitted for this battle than the tulwars of Turan, and ten-to-one odds were not so long as they might have seemed.
Conan hewed the sword arm from his first opponent and sundered the skull of the second. Both fell so as to block the narrow passage to the Cimmerian for those behind. The first one to hesitate did so within reach of the Cimmerian's sword, and died of that mistake. Two others leaped free with only minor wounds, but barred a clear shot to archers behind.
Conan feared that this good fortune would not last; now more than ever he would not assume his foes were witlings. So he took the fight to the enemy, closing the distance to the two nearest in a single leap.
He struck them with as much force as a boulder. One man toppled against the rock wall, hard enough to knock himself senseless. Conan kicked the other, hard enough to double him over. A tulwar fell from one hand, a dagger from the other, and the man himself fell on top of them when the Cimmerian split his skull with a down-cut.
Another Turanian leaped up to contest the rock with Conan. Now blood from the already fallen flowed over it, making it slick. The Cimmerian was a hillman of the breed of whom it is said they have eyes in their feet. He knew how to keep his footing on slippery rock, and make an opponent lose
his.
The Turanian tried to grapple, praying aloud, clearly hoping to take Conan down with him. Conan slapped the man across the temple with the flat of his sword, weakening his grip. That weakened grip let the Cimmerian draw his dagger and thrust fiercely upward. The Turanian howled and flew backward from the rock, propelled by a kick that added further ruin to his belly and groin.
He struck a comrade, again with the force of a boulder, and both men went down. Conan reached them before the unwounded Turanian could rise, stamped on his chest hard enough to shatter ribs, then fended off two and killed one enemy seeking to drag the fallen clear.
Arrows again whistled and clattered. One ripped the skin over his ribs, deep enough that blood flowed freely over the dust and the scars. The wound would hardly slow him and might not even add a fresh scar, but he was reminded that he now stood in the open. He had routed or slain all the Turanians who shielded him from their comrades' arrows. Now he had to either push forward to bring the fight back to close quarters, or withdraw.
A look down the slope told him the wisdom of withdrawing. The first wave of Turanians was out of the fight, and the survivors of the second showed no disposition to close. Three of them had fallen to the boulders, which had also crushed the life out of the archer the Afghulis had wounded. The others retained some cunning with the bow but no heart for pushing the fight to swords' reach of the Cimmerian.
Another arrow nicked Conan's left calf as he returned to his refuge. He had taken worse hurts in a friendly wrestling bout, but they reminded him that the Afghulis above might not have fared as well. That no arrows had come down from above during his own grapple with the Turanians might mean sundry things, but none of them good.
"Ho!" he called, in the same dialect he had used before. "How are matters with you?"
"Assad is dead and Kurim is hurt past fighting. None of us are whole.
Those Turanian dogs climbed the rocks as if they were men, but we taught them otherwise."
"How many learned the lesson?"
"A few short of fifty."
"I didn't know you could count that high, O brother of a camel!"
Silence, then Farad said, "More than ten, for we have counted that many bodies and some rolled back down."
On the Cimmerian's reckoning, the Turanians had lost another third of their strength. Ride out now, while the Turanians were shaken and weak, or wait until night, when darkness would hide tracks and coolness ease the horses?
"Can the hurt ride now?"
"Best wait for dark. I will leave none save Assad, and not even he if we can. Rastam and Jobir are already down among those dogs, prey to their godless rites."
Conan knew the sound of an Afghuli who would not be moved from his decision. To his mind, riding out now made better sense, giving the Turanians no chance to bring up reinforcements.
Out of care for his men, Farad clearly thought otherwise. Question the Afghuli further, and the Cimmerian might have to leave this loyal band to keep Farad's knife out of his back some night farther on the road to Koth. One could ask only so much of any Afghuli if one was not of his tribe.
So be it. They would all ride that road together, or remain here on the rocks with a good guard of Turanians to help them greet the vultures.
-
Four
-
The western horizon swallowed the sun. Swiftly the last light of day drained from the sky. The peaks of the Kezankian Mountains turned purple, then gray under the starlight.
A natural mist veiled the entrance to the Lady's valley as Muhbaras walked down to his tent. Or at least it was a mist that he could persuade himself was work of the mountain night and not of the Lady's magic.
Reason warred and would continue to war against ancient tales of the mighty magic lurking in these mountains”magic of which the Lady might have a sadly imperfect command. The captain had first heard those tales from his nursemaid, but later years had brought to his ears other versions of them, so that he doubted they were altogether an old woman's fancies.
Meanwhile, he had been given orders and men with which to carry them out, as an alternative to a more permanent exile or some harsher fate.
He doubted that he himself would ever see Khoraja again, but he could not throw away his men out of his own despair.
So he would do his duty of the night, and sleep, to make ready for whatever might be the duties of the day.
The rocks returned the heat of day to the night sky arching above them.
Within the ravine the horses stirred uneasily. A pebble fell from high above, followed by two more. Then one by one, the last four Afghulis scrambled down the rocks.
One of them had a dead comrade's headdress wrapped around his arm as a bandage. He also showed dark beads of blood on his lower lip, where he had bitten it to stifle a cry of pain.
The Afghulis gathered around Conan, eyes gleaming in their dark faces.
They had braided their beards and tied them roughly with scraps of cloth, then drawn scarves over their necks and chins. That was the Afghuli mark of having sworn to conquer or to die.
Conan had sworn no such oath. Indeed, he had seldom fought any other way, and it was not in him to do so tonight. The greatest kindness the Turanians might show him was a quick death, and that, he could always procure for himself.
"Anyone who has water, give it to your horse."
Conan said. "Archers, don't shoot unless you have a good mark, and take a horse before you take a rider."
The Afghulis nodded. Conan hardly doubted that he was telling them what they already knew, and that they needed no reassurance, he knew as well. But a chief among the Afghulis always spoke to his assembled men before the battle, if only to prove that fear had not dried his tongue past speaking.
"If we are divided, the meeting place is at the Virgin's Oasis." He gave distances and landmarks, then asked, "Questions?"
Farad spoke up. "Yes. Whenever did the gods allow a woman to come into this desert and remain a virgin?"
"A long time ago, or so I've heard," the Cimmerian replied. "Men were less than they are today, in that time, and of course, none of them were Afghulis."
Bawdy laughter all but raised echoes, so that Conan held a finger to his lips. "The Turanians are not all asleep, and not all who wake are fools. Speed and silence now, or we'll keep our lost comrades company."
In silence the Afghulis bowed, then turned to tend their horses.
Only the dead remained high on the ridge, hands stiffening over the hilts of daggers thrust between their ribs according to the Afghuli custom. Thus the harsh gods of that still harsher land would know that a friend's steel had pierced their hearts, and that their ghosts would be friends to the living, even watchful on their behalf.
If the ghosts of the Afghulis' dead watched this night, they saw nothing, or at least sent no word to their living friends. Below on the desert, neither Afghuli nor Cimmerian saw shadows creep across a distant sand dune, then sink silently to rest. They did not see a messenger slipping away from the outer line of the watching Turanians, also creeping shadowlike until he was beyond seeing from the rocks.
Far out beyond the crests, only ghosts might have seen him mount a horse held ready by four riders who bore the lances and shields of Turanian regular cavalry and the colors of the crack Greencloaks. Only ghosts might have seen him ride off into the night, until he met a slim, youthful-looking Turanian captain not far from where the shadows had come to rest.
And only ghosts might have heard his message to the captain, or noted the captain's thin face split briefly in a wry grin.
Three Afghuli archers climbed on the highest boulders remaining after the battle. They were fewer in number and with less command of the slope below than Conan could have wished. But he now led fewer than he had at dawn, and of those, not all were fighting-fit. Warriors did the best they could with what they had, and if the end came sooner because what they had was not enough”
Conan asked two Afghulis to repeat the directi
ons to the Virgin's Oasis. They both knew the way. Then he scrambled onto the boulders with the archers, as Farad led the others out into the open.
Neither drums, trumpets, showers, nor even the mating-cat squall of a frightened sentry greeted the Afghulis' appearance. It began to seem that they would either enjoy good luck or face a trap.
Conan swallowed a Cimmerian war cry. Glad to defy alert opponents, he refused to alert sleeping ones. Instead he slapped Farad's mount on the rump and swung into his own saddle. He raised one hand in a cheerfully obscene Afghuli gesture, waited until the three archers scrambled down and mounted, then spurred his horse forward.
The riders streamed down the slope at a brisk trot, raising a ghostly cloud of dust. In the chill of the desert night, the breath of men and horses added will-o'-the-wisps of vapor to the dust.
They passed dead men lying stiff and silent, doomed men still moaning against their coming death, and a few who Conan thought might have been shamming. There was no time to send those last to join their comrades, for all that this would leave them alive in the riders' rear. This was a ride for life. If it became a battle, it would most likely be one lost because it took place at all!
Once they were clear of the shadow of the rocks, the moon gave enough light to permit avoiding holes and cracks in the ground. They held their speed down to a trot. The horses might not be able to keep up a canter. If they could, best to save it for when the Turanians sighted them. The Turanians could not have drawn back so far that even by night the escape would remain forever invisible.
Or could they? As one rise gave way to another without an attack or even a warning cry, Conan began to wonder. His band had punished the Turanians soundly in today's fighting. Had they drawn off to lick their wounds while they waited for reinforcements?
A trap still seemed more likely, but there seemed no need to warn his men. The Afghulis appeared more alert than ever, riding with bows strung or tulwars drawn, eyes ceaselessly roaming the night, heads turning at any slight sound heard above the thud of the horses' hooves.
The Conan Compendium Page 548
