Malkuri, too, reacted to his sudden change, but not as Nermesa might have expected. She stared at the Aquilonian in concern—concern for him. The witch did not for a moment cease her chanting despite his interruption, but her gaze turned to the flap and the warring elements outside.
The entire structure suddenly shook as if some hand sought to tear it free of the ground. Yet somehow the hut stayed in place.
Releasing Malkuri’s shoulder, Nermesa looked for his garments and sword. He threw on only enough to cover him, then belted on the sheath.
Zyr no longer watched him, now intent on the flap. The wolf-dog growled low, as if sensing someone outside.
The Ophirian’s chanting increased . . . and now Nermesa thought he heard other sounds accompanying her foreign words. They were not human sounds, though, but rather reminiscent of the calls he heard when traveling through any forest. Animal calls. A wolf. Several birds, including an owl and a mockingbird. The Aquilonian even thought he heard the hiss of a snake or lizard.
He glanced back at the totem . . . and could have sworn that around it emanated a very faint golden glow. Over the skulls, Malkuri further intensified her efforts. Her arms stretched skyward, and her breasts rose and fell rapidly as she threw herself into whatever incantation she was casting.
At that moment, the flap suddenly tore open. Zyr leapt toward it, barking furiously. Nermesa charged the open entrance—
“No!” shouted Malkuri.
Just as he reached the opening, a tremendous force threw him back. But Nermesa did not simply tumble over the furs. He flew over them, hovering as a cloud might hover over the landscape. The walls of the hut bent in and out as if the structure breathed.
Nermesa finally landed. He grunted as the air was momentarily jarred out of him by the force of the collision.
Zyr charged out of the hut, heading into the storm.
Shoving himself to his feet, Nermesa, sword in hand, fought his way to the entrance. He felt as if cold fingers grabbed at his throat, seeking to stifle his breath. Despite that, the Black Dragon finally managed to reach the opening and follow the wolf-dog outside.
The storm wracked the forest around him. Huge trees shook and shivered, some bending over almost completely. Loose foliage swarmed around him like a mass of angry bees. Rain beat down on him. Nermesa put a hand over his face to keep from being blinded.
A growl momentarily cut through the thunder. The Aquilonian veered to the right, heading toward where he thought the animal was. He trusted the wolf-dog’s natural instinct to ferret out whatever was the cause of all this.
As Nermesa entered the forest, Zyr barked wildly at something he had discovered. Picking up his pace, Nermesa tried to find the creature.
Lightning suddenly struck the tree next to him. Nermesa barely leapt out of the way as much of the upper half came crashing down.
As he rose again, a shadow moved a short distance ahead, a shadow moving on what was likely two legs. With an angry growl, Nermesa rushed the area. He slashed at interfering branches, tore at obstructing bushes, in order to reach his quarry.
Then, something swung across his view. In the dark, it looked like a hand made of spindly branches. It hit the Aquilonian square across the jaw, sending him tumbling back. His sword finally slipped from his hand.
And as he landed, a rasping laugh reached his ears. Over him suddenly loomed a shadowy figure.
Lightning flared . . . its illumination intensifying the glitter of the crimson jewel worn between the figure’s sewn-shut eyes.
The sorcerer from the catacombs gestured at Nermesa . . .
9
A CRUSHING FORCE overwhelmed the Aquilonian. His very bones felt as if they were slowly being ground to powder. Yet, even with all that, Nermesa fought to grab his blade so that he might still save himself.
Then, out of the storm came a sleek, swift shape that leapt at the hooded figure. The sorcerer swore loudly as Zyr fell upon him. Malkuri’s wolf-dog growled and barked as he and the fiend rolled out of sight.
Slowly—much too slowly for Nermesa’s tastes—the crushing force eased. As soon as he was able, the Black Dragon seized his sword and struggled to his feet. In the forest ahead, he heard Zyr furiously attacking and the rasping curses of his human adversary.
But as Nermesa neared, there was a flash of crimson light, and the animal suddenly let loose with a wild, pained yowl. The light momentarily blinded the Aquilonian, and in that moment he heard ragged breathing and swift movement heading away.
The second he could see again, Nermesa rushed toward where the two had been fighting. The light had faded almost immediately after, plunging this part of the stormy forest into darkest shadow.
Nermesa’s foot prodded something. An uneasy feeling swept over him. He bent down to see what lay at his feet.
Lightning flashed . . . and in it, Nermesa beheld the gruesome remains of the wolf-dog. Although only visible for an instant, it was a sight the captain doubted he could ever forget. Malkuri’s loyal companion and protector looked as if he had been flayed alive. His fur and the flesh holding it had been torn in one great piece from the poor animal. Shock alone likely had slain Zyr, though the blood Nermesa had seen pooling over the carcass probably would have killed the wolf-dog soon after, regardless.
Disgusted at what men could be capable of, Nermesa sheathed his weapon. Had the sorcerer still remained near, he would have attacked the Aquilonian by now. Zyr had accomplished two great feats before his death—driving off the villain and saving Nermesa’s own life.
Steeling himself, Nermesa bent down again and picked up the animal’s body in his arms. Had he seen a man slain so on the battlefield, he would have carried the corpse back; for Zyr, Nermesa could do no less.
The wolf-dog’s head lolled at an awkward angle. Grimacing, Nermesa took it by the muzzle and shifted it for better carrying. As he did so, he felt something stuck in the teeth. A piece of cloth. Without knowing why he did it, the Aquilonian took the cloth and stuffed it in his belt.
As he finished adjusting the grisly burden, Bolontes’ son noticed something else. The storm had all but ceased, as if simply cut off. More curious, the only moisture on Nermesa was his sweat and the wolf-dog’s blood. The Aquilonian’s hair was not even damp.
Frowning, Nermesa started back to Malkuri’s hut. Along the trail, he noticed a few other peculiarities. Although the dark of night hid much, his eyes had adjusted enough to tell that the many broken branches and scattered leaves that he recalled appeared to have vanished. The path was also very dry.
Most unsettling, the area where Nermesa recalled the tree being struck was clear, and the one he believed had been hit seemed entirely whole.
It was with some relief that finally Nermesa spotted the hut. As he approached, the Ophirian witch slipped out of her home. A gasp escaped her when she noticed what he carried.
“A sorcerer did this,” growled the Aquilonian.
Malkuri nodded, then managed to say, “Please . . . please bring Zyr inside.”
Nermesa obeyed. Malkuri entered behind him, the witch murmuring.
“Where do I set him down?”
“By the totem.”
For some reason, Nermesa was not surprised. He placed the wolf-dog’s corpse in front of the mound of skulls, then backed away.
Malkuri leaned down, gently touching Zyr on the top of the head. She then turned to the Aquilonian, looking him over. “You are injured?”
“Most of the blood belongs to Zyr. He saved my life from the sorcerer . . .”
“He was good.” The witch returned her attention to the carcass. “Good friend and brave protector.” She raised her hand, and in it Nermesa now saw a dagger. “And so you still shall be, Zyr.”
Malkuri brought the blade down, cutting deep into the throat.
Startled, Nermesa watched in horrified fascination as the witch severed Zyr’s head from his body. She then held up the head, pointing the ruined muzzle toward her own. Again, the Ophirian muttered under he
r breath.
The totem began to glow slightly.
Not wishing to see more, Nermesa silently departed the hut. With him, he carried one of Malkuri’s water jugs. At the edge of the small clearing, the Aquilonian opened the jug and poured some of the water over his head and torso. He took a handful of leaves and used them to wipe off as best as possible some of the grime and blood.
It took the better part of an hour, but at last Nermesa felt himself clean enough to tolerate. He glanced over his shoulder at the shadowy hut. The witch’s muttering had ceased several minutes before, but Nermesa had given himself some extra time before returning.
When he entered, it was to a scene that made him arch his brow in mild surprise. There was no sign of Zyr’s corpse, not even the slightest trace of blood. Malkuri knelt by her totem, her eyes shut and her lips barely twitching.
Nermesa quietly returned to where he had been sleeping. A few minutes later, the dark woman joined him.
“Zyr thanks you, Nermesa Klandes. His spirit will join with that of the lion to watch over you.”
He started. As far as he could recall, no word of his House symbol had ever passed between them. Then Nermesa recalled his sword. Likely Malkuri had studied it, possibly when he had been her prisoner.
“I thank you also,” she added, suddenly leaning forward and kissing him deeply.
Vestiges of desire stirred, but Nermesa fought them down. The struggle against the nameless sorcerer had burned away most of whatever potion the witch had given him. He gently pushed her away.
Her eyes held not anger, but sadness. Malkuri nodded. “I would have stopped the draughts soon, but it has been so lonely here . . .”
“You’re a beautiful woman.” Nermesa gestured to the side. “Why not go to Tebes or Sarta or one of the other Corinthian city-states? There is many a man of high stature who would fall over himself for you.”
“And, in doing so, my cousin’s family would find me. They watch the cities, I know.”
“What of your husb—your cousin? Does he also search?”
Her expression momentarily became one of grim satisfaction. “It is hard to search while rotting in a grave.”
Nermesa did not have to ask the details of his death. Malkuri was a very determined woman. “You could go to Aquilonia. I’ve friends who would aid you there.”
She shook her head. “My fate lies elsewhere, this much I have divined.” The Ophirian grew much more solemn. “Something I would do for you, Nermesa Klandes. There was a force tonight of such evil that we are fortunate to be alive, much less still have our souls . . .”
“The sorcerer . . .”
“And for you to speak of him so means a familiarity no one would ask for. I did not seek the full reasons for your having wandered to my home, Aquilonian, but they involve this creature of darkness, yes?”
“Yes.” He held back from saying more, though.
His reticence did not go unnoticed. “I may be able to help you know more of your enemy, Nermesa Klandes. There are ways the House of Chelkus teaches for seeking such knowledge . . .”
It was tempting. Nermesa had once thought his adversary a demon, but that a man should be so steeped in the foul arts in some ways bothered him more.
Something occurred to him. “Whoever he is, he’s not as mighty as he imagines. Zyr caught him good before being so cruelly slain.”
Malkuri’s eyes immediately burned with anticipation. “How do you know this?”
The Aquilonian searched for the small piece of black cloth. In the light of the witch’s fire, he saw for the first time how blood-soaked it was.
Malkuri snatched it from his grasp, only a moment later to gasp and toss the piece to the ground as if it had bitten her.
“Sala and Parcelsus!” she spat. “Such venom . . . it cannot be!”
Nermesa eyed the bit of garment warily. “What? What happened just now?”
Instead of answering, the Ophirian reached for the bloodied cloth again, only to halt her outstretched fingers just above it. She muttered something, then finally—defiantly—seized the piece.
“Tell me what you saw of him,” Malkuri rasped. Her eyes looked up, nearly rolling back into her head. “Tell me, Nermesa Klandes!”
He no longer hesitated. “The sorcerer wears a cloak that seems to live of its own accord. As black as his soul. In it, he appears a demon or phantom . . . but in truth, he looks far more monstrous than both. His face is as dry and pinched as from an ancient grave and—”
“And the eyes,” she demanded. “What color are his eyes?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Nermesa cringed at the very memory of those eyes. “for they were sewn up tight! What I thought was his eyes—his one eye—was in fact, a gemstone the sorcerer wears over the lowest part of his forehead!”
Malkuri let out an oath in her native Ophirian. With the scrap of cloth in her hand, she crawled over to the totem. Muttering under her breath, the witch grabbed a tiny pouch and from it drew a pinch of some gray powder. This she tossed onto the cloth, which now lay before the base of the totem.
A totem that, for the first time, Nermesa noticed was now supported at that base by the freshly polished skull of an animal with both lupine and canine features.
Still muttering, Malkuri seized a tiny bottle from near the hut wall. Removing the stopper, she poured three drops of a dark liquid onto the powder.
An emerald flash caused the Aquilonian involuntarily to pull back. Green smoke rose from the cloth. Malkuri leaned forward, inhaling from the smoke.
A breath later, she began to speak . . . but her voice was deeper, almost a man’s and yet something else.
“Cursed by his own, cast out by evil! Seeker of the vile treasures of Acheron! Banished from Ophir, land of the father! Reviled in Stygia, womb of the mother!” The witch convulsed, then let out a wordless cry before declaring, “It is! Sala and Parcelsus, it is he! The fiend, Set-Anubis, walks this mortal plane yet!”
The last of the smoke faded. The cloth was now a wrinkled, burned thing.
Malkuri convulsed again, then slumped forward. Nermesa moved to help her, but the Ophirian shook her head.
“Touch me not for the next few moments . . .” she rasped. “But take what is left of that cloth and toss it into the cleansing flame! Hurry!”
Nermesa wasted no time in obeying. The ruined piece was unsettlingly cold to the touch, not hot or even warm, as he had expected. With much relief, he tossed it into the small fire, where it vanished with a vile hiss.
As he turned back to Malkuri, the witch straightened. She shook her head twice, flinging her ample hair back and forth as if to shake free from it the vestiges of some nightmare.
Her eyes burned into his. “Set-Anubis haunts your trail, Nermesa Klandes! How can this be so? What could you do to so draw his interest?”
“Who is this Set-Anubis?” the captain demanded back. “He sounds Stygian.” Nermesa had grown up hearing tales of mysterious, sinister Stygia, with its serpent god and dark practitioners. He knew that King Conan had faced sorcerers from that land and defeated them, but at great price. Now one was after him?
“Not completely Stygian, nor fully Ophirian, Nermesa Klandes, but the worst of both! He who calls himself Set-Anubis—it is said his own true name may be whispered only by demons—bears the blood of Chelkus from his father, a corrupt sorcerer himself! Yet his mother was a Stygian creature, who saw in the father the means to beget a son of dark power!” Malkuri spat. “What they begat was a monster in human form, a creature so foul that both were dead by his arts before he reached full growth!”
The Aquilonian looked aghast. “He killed his own parents?”
“In far worse manner than my husband would have my own baby. But those were only the first of many heinous crimes, crimes for which even the Stygian masters under whom he studied became revolted! They are the ones who sewed shut his eyes as punishment, then cast him into the deserts to die . . . but a thing as foul as Set-Anubis ever seems to find a way to s
urvive.”
“But—how, in such a state?”
Malkuri shrugged. “Some say magic, others the work of fearful demons! It is then that he is rumored to have found the ruins of lost Acheron and learned from secrets there how to bind himself to the power of certain artifacts they had left behind.” With her finger, she drew a symbol in the air, one that Nermesa suspected was of protection against evil. “And there he discovered the Eye of Charon, which you saw adhered to his face! Legend says that it was created by a wizard of Acheron who learned all the secrets of death. Whether true or not, you see that it is aptly named, for it now gives Set-Anubis sight such as no mortal man can comprehend . . .”
A horribly fascinating tale, but still it did not explain some things to Nermesa’s satisfaction. “But why is such a creature after me . . . and what can possibly defeat him? Is your magic—”
“Ha! Do not even think it! We are both very fortunate, my Aquilonian warrior! Set-Anubis is able to mix illusion with reality, and both weapons are mighty indeed! Something must have bound his skills, though . . . but he may not be long in returning. Both of us must leave here, though our paths differ!”
“So, is there no manner by which to destroy him?”
Malkuri considered. “Zyr was merely fortunate, he being a woodland presence that the foul one’s sorcery did not notice until too late. Still . . . I had thought Set-Anubis once dead . . .”
Bolontes’ son grasped at that straw. “And why would you believe such unless it had some credence?”
“Because it was said that it was the Kushites who finally slew him, using magic arts such as even Stygia only imagines. I had heard that his head decorated one of their temples and had itself become an artifact of power for those who would dare use it. A pity that it is not so.”
A pity for Nermesa, especially. He leaned back, frustrated. If the powerful and relentless sorcerers of Stygia and Kush could not rid the world of this Set-Anubis, what could a simple soldier do?
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