Conan the Invincible

by Robert Jordan

  Conan smiled briefly. “I told her once I was no hand at obedience.”

  “Mitra, Zandru, and nine or ten other gods whose names escape me at the moment.” Hordo let out a long sigh and squatted with his thick arms crossed on his knees. “Another time I wouldn’t mind wagering on which of you will win, but not when I might be shortened a head for being in the middle.”

  “There’s no talk of winning or losing. I’m in no battle with her.”

  The side of the one-eyed man’s mouth that was not drawn into a permanent sneer grimaced. “You’re a man, and she’s a woman. There’s battle enough. Well, what happens, happens. But remember my warning. Harm her, and it’s you will be shorter a head.”

  “Since she’s angry with me, talk her into turning back. That will give you what you want. Her away from me.” He did not add that it would also give him what he wanted, and relieve him of the necessity of stealing the pendants from the bandits.

  “The temper she’s in, ’tis more likely she’ll order you staked out again, and begin again where first we were.”

  Conan touched his sword; his steel blue eyes were suddenly cold. “This time I’ll collect my ferryman’s fee, Hordo.”

  “Speak not of ferryman’s fees,” the other man muttered. “An she decides so … I’ll get you away in the night. Bah! This talk of what will happen and what may happen is building towers of sand in the wind.”

  “Then let us talk on other things,” Conan said with a laugh that did not touch his eyes. He believed the one-eyed brigand did indeed like him, but he would not trust his life to that where the need of going against Karela’s commands was concerned. “Think you Aberius made these snakemen out of air, to cover his wanting to turn back?”

  “He tells the truth with a face that shouts lie, yet this time I think he may actually have seen something. That’s not to say it was what he says it was. Ah, I know not, Conan. Snakes that walk like men.” The bearded bandit shivered. “I begin to grow old. This chasing after a king’s treasure is beyond me. I’d settle for a good caravan with guards who have no wish to die.”

  “Than talk her into turning back. ’Tis almost full dark. I’ll leave the camp tonight, and in the morning, with me gone, there will be no trouble in it.”

  “Much you know,” Hordo snorted. “With the humor on her now, she’d order us to pursue, and slay any who would not.”

  The flap of the striped pavilion opened, and Karela emerged, her face almost hidden by the hood of a scarlet cloak that covered her to the ground. She moved purposefully toward the two men through the deepening purple twilight. The cookfires made small pools of light among the boulders.

  Hordo got to his feet, dusting his hands nervously. “I … must see to the horses. Good luck to you, Conan.” He hurried away, not looking in the direction of the approaching woman.

  Conan picked up his sword again and bent to examine the blade. It must needs be sharp, but the razor-edge some men boasted of would split against chain mail and quickly leave naught but a metal club. He became aware of the lower edge of Karela’s crimson cloak at the corner of his vision. He did not look up.

  “Why did you not come to my tent?” she demanded abruptly.

  “I had need to tend my sword.” With a final examination of the edge, he stood and sheathed the sword. Her tilted green eyes glared up at him from within the shelter of her hood; his sapphire gaze met hers calmly.

  “I commanded you to come to me! We have much to discuss.”

  “But I will not be commanded, Karela. I am not one of your faithful hounds.”

  Her gasp was loud. “You defy me? I should have known you would think to supplant me. Do not think simply because you share my bed —”

  “Be not a fool, Karela.” The big Cimmerian made an effort to keep a rein on his temper. “I have no designs on your band. Command your rogues, but do not try to command me.”

  “So long as you ride behind the Red Hawk—”

  “I ride with you, and beside you, as you ride with and beside me. No more than that for either of us.”

  “Do not cut me off, you muscle-bound oaf!” Her shout rang through the camp, echoing from tall boulders and the looming cliff. Bandits at the cook fires, and currying horses, turned to stare. Even in the dimness Conan could see that her face had colored. She lowered her voice, but her tone was acid. “I thought that you were the man I sought, a man strong enough to be the Red Hawk’s consort. Derketo blast your soul! You’re naught but a street thief!”

  He caught her swinging hand before it could strike his cheek, and held it easily despite her struggles. Her scarlet cloak gaped open, revealing that she wore nothing beneath. “Again you break your oath, Karela. Do you hold your goddess in such contempt as to believe she will not punish a foresworn oath?”

  Abruptly the auburn-haired woman seemed to realize the spectacle they were making before her brigands. She gathered her cloak together with her free hand. “Release me,” she said coolly. “Rot your soul, I will not say please.”

  Conan loosened his grip, but it was not her plea that caused him to do so. As she tore her wrist free the hairs on the back of his neck were rising in an unpleasantly familiar fashion. He stared through the now black sky at the mountains around them. The stars were glittering bright points, and the moon had not yet risen. The mountains were formless deepenings of the night’s shadows.

  “Imhep-Aton follows still,” he said quietly.

  “I may allow you some liberties in private, Conan,” Karela grated, rubbing her wrist, “but never again in public are you to … . Imhep-Aton? That’s the name the possessed man spoke, that night in the camp. The sorcerer’s name.”

  Conan nodded. “It was he who spoke to me first of the pendants. If not for the man he sent to kill me that night, I’d have delivered them to him, once I had them, for the price agreed. Now he has no more claim on me, or on the pendants.”

  “How can you be sure it is him, and not a hillman, or just the weight of night in these mountains pressing on you?”

  “I know,” he said simply.

  “But—” Abruptly she stared past him, green eyes going wide in shock, mouth dropping open.

  Conan spun, broadsword leaving its scabbard as he turned to knock aside the thrust of a spear in the hands of a demon-like apparition. Red eyes glowed at him from a dark scaled face beneath a ridged helmet. A harsh cry hissed at him from a fanged mouth. The big Cimmerian allowed himself no time for surprise. His return blow from the parry opened the creature from crotch to neck, black blood bubbling forth as it fell.

  Already that sibilant battle cry was going up around the camp. Men leaped to their feet around the fires, on the border of panic as scores of scalyskinned warriors poured out of the night. Alvar stared, and screamed as a spear pierced him through the chest. A swarthy Iranistani turned to flee and had his spine severed by a massive battle-ax in claw-fingered hands. Bandits darted like rats searching for an escape.

  “Fight, Crom blast you!” Conan shouted. “They can die, too!”

  He ran toward the slaughter in the camp, looking for Karela. Almost at once he spotted her in the middle of the fighting. From somewhere she had acquired a tulwar, though not her jeweled blade. Her cloak now dangled, bunched, from her left hand as a snare to catch other’s weapons, and she danced naked through the butchery, red hair streaming, a fury from the Outer Dark, her curved sword drinking ebon blood.

  “Up, my hounds!” she screamed. “Fight, for your lives!” Roaring, Hordo dashed in behind her to take a spear in the thigh that had been meant for her back. The one-eyed brigand’s blade sought his reptilian attacker’s heart, and even as the creature was falling he tore the spear from his leg and waded into the fray, blood over his boot.

  Before Conan loomed another of the scaled men, his back to the Cimmerian, his spear raised to transfix Aberius, who lay on the ground with bulging eyes, his gap-toothed mouth open in a scream. Battles are not duels. Conan slammed his sword through the creature’s back to stand ou
t a foot from its chest. While it still stood, death-shriek bubbling forth, he planted a booted foot on its agony-arched back to tug his blade free.

  The saurian killer fell twitching across Aberius, who screamed again and wriggled free with a glare at Conan as if he wished the Cimmerian were in the scaled one’s place. The weasel-faced bandit grabbed the dying creature’s spear, and for a bare second the two men stared at one another. Then Aberius darted into the fighting, shouting, “The Red Hawk! For the Red Hawk!”

  “Crom!” Conan bellowed, and plunged into the maelstrom. “Crom and steel!”

  The battle became a kaleidoscoping nightmare for the Cimmerian, as all battles did for all warriors. Men battling scaled monsters flickered before him and were gone, still locked in their death struggles. The cloud of battles covered his mind, loosing the fury of his wild north country, and even those scaled snake-men who faced him knew fear before they died, fear at the battle light that glowed in his blue eyes, fear at the grim, wild laughter that broke from his lips even as he slew. He waded through them, broadsword working in murderous frenzy.

  “Crom!” If these scaly demons were to pay his ferryman’s fee, he would set it high. “Crom and steel!”

  And then there were none left standing among the night-shrouded boulders save those of human kind. Conan’s broad chest was splattered with inky blood, mixing with his own in more than one place. He looked about him wearily, the battle fury fading.

  Reptilian bodies lay everywhere, some twitching still. And among them were no few of the bandits. Hordo hobbled from wounded brigand to wounded brigand, a red-stained rag twisted about his thigh, offering what aid he could do those who still could use it. Aberius sat hunched by a fire, leaning on his spear. Other bandits began to make their dazed way in from the darkness.

  Karela strode across the charnel ground to the Cimmerian, the cloak discarded, tulwar still gripped firmly in her hand. He was relieved to note that none of the blood that smeared her round breasts was her own.

  “It seems Aberius saw nothing after all,” she said when she faced him. “At least we know now what you felt watching you. I could wish you had gotten your warning somewhat earlier.”

  Conan shook his head. It was no use explaining to her how he knew it had not been the gaze of these things he felt on him. “I wish I knew whence they—”

  He broke off with a sudden oath, and bent to examine the boots of one of the dead creatures. They were worked in the pattern of an encircling serpent, its head seeming surrounded by rays. Hurriedly he went to another body, and still others. All wore the boots.

  “What takes you, Conan?” Karela demanded. “Even if you need boots, surely you could never wear something that came from these.”

  “No,” he replied. “Those who stole the pendants from Tiridates’ palace wore boots worked with a serpent.” He tugged one of the boots from a narrow foot and tossed it to her.

  She stepped aside to let it fall with a grimace of distaste. “I’ve had my fill and more of those things. Conan, you can’t believe these … these whatever they are, entered Shadizar and left, unhindered. The City Guard is blind, I’ll grant, but not as blind as that.”

  “They wore hooded robes that covered them to their fingertips. And they left the city at night, when the guards on the gates are half asleep at best. They could have entered the night before and remained hidden until it was time to do their work at the palace.”

  “It could be as you say,” Karela admitted reluctantly. “But what help that is to us, I cannot see.”

  Hordo limped up and stood glaring at Conan. “Two score men and four, Cimmerian. That’s what I led into these accursed mountains on this mad quest of yours. Full fifteen are food for worms this night, and two more like not to last till dawn. Thank whatever odd gods you pray to, we took a pair of them alive. The amusement of putting them to the question will keep you from being staked out in their place. And I’ll tell you, for all my liking, if they tried I’m not sure I’d stop them.”

  “Prisoners?” Karela said sharply. “I’ve little love for these creatures dead, none alive. Give them to the men now. Come dawn we’ll be riding out of these mountains.”

  “We abandon the treasure, then?” The one-eyed bandit sounded more relieved than surprised. “Fare you well, then, Conan, for I see this will be the last night we spend in company.”

  Karela turned slowly to give the Cimmerian an unreadable look. “Do we part, then?”

  Conan nodded reluctantly, and with a rueful glare at Hordo. He had not meant her to find out so soon. In fact, his plan had been to leave in the night, with one of the prisoners for a guide, and let her discover him gone come morning.

  “I continue after the pendants,” the Cimmerian said.

  “And that girl,” Karela said flatly.

  “Company,” Hordo muttered, before Conan could speak further.

  Toward them marched those of the bandits who were able to walk, not one man without at least one bloody bandage, and every one with his weapon in hand. Aberius marched at their head, using his spear like a walking staff. The others wore purposeful looks on their faces, but only he had a spiteful smile. Ten paces from where Conan stood with Karela and Hordo, they stopped.

  Hordo started forward angrily, but Karela put a hand on his arm. He stopped, but his glare promised reckonings another time. Karela faced the gathering calmly, hand on hip and sword point planted firmly on the ground.

  “Not hurt too badly, eh, Aberius?” she said with a sudden smile. The weasel-faced man seemed taken aback. He had a scratch down his cheek, and a piece of rag about his left arm. “And you, Talbor,” she went on before anyone could speak. “Not as hard a night’s work as you’ve had. Remember when we took that slaver’s caravan from Zamboula, only they’d doubled the guard for fear of those quarry slaves they had bound for Ketha? I mind carrying you away from that across my saddle, with an arrow through you, and—”

  “That’s of no matter now,” Aberius snapped. Hordo lurched forward, snarling, but Karela stopped him with a gesture. Aberius seemed to relax at that, and his smile became more satisfied. “No matter at all, now,” he repeated smugly.

  “Then what is of matter?” she asked.

  Aberius blinked. “Has the Red Hawk suddenly lost her vision?” A few of the men behind him laughed; the others looked grim. “More than a third of our number dead, and not a coin in anyone’s purse to see for it. We were going to steal some pendants from a few pilgrims. Now we’ve followed them all the way into these accursed mountains, and might follow to Vendhya with naught to show for it. Hillmen. Soldiers. Now, demons. It’s time to go back to the plains, back to what we know.”

  “I decide when to turn back!” Karela’s voice was suddenly a whip, lashing them. “I took you from the mud, robbing wayfarers for a few coppers, and made you feared by every caravan that leaves Shadizar, or Zamboula, or Aghrapur itself! I found you scavengers, and made you men! I put gold in your purses, and the swagger in your walks that make men step wide of you and women wriggle close! I am the Red Hawk, and I say we go on, and take this treasure that was stolen from a king!”

  “You’ve led us long,” Aberius said. “Karela.” The familiarity of the name brought a gasp from the red-haired woman, and a growl from Hordo. Suddenly she seemed only a woman. A naked woman. Aberius licked his lips. Lecherous lights appeared in the eyes of the men behind him.

  Karela took a step back. Conan could read every emotion that fled across her face. Rage. Shame. Frustration. And finally the determination to sell her life dearly. She took a firmer grip on her tulwar. Hordo had unobtrusively slipped his blade from its sheath.

  If he had half a brain, Conan told himself, he would slip away now. After all, he owed her nothing. There was the oath not to save her, too. Before the brigands knew what was happening, he could be gone into the night, with one of the prisoners to guide him to the pendants. And Velita. With a sigh, he stepped forward.

  “I do not break my oath,” he said softly, for
Karela’s ears alone. “It’s my own life I’m saving.” He walked down to confront Aberius and the rest with a friendly smile, though the casual-seeming way his hand rested on his sword hilt was deceptive.

  “Do not think to join us, Conan,” Aberius said. There was considerable satisfaction in his smile. “You stand with them.”

  “I thought we all stood together,” the Cimmerian replied. “You do remember the reason we came, don’t you? Treasure? A king’s treasure?”

  The narrow-faced bandit spat, barely missing Conan’s boot. “That’s well out of our reach, now. I’ll never find that trail again.”

  Conan let his smile broaden. “There’s no need. These creatures you’ve killed tonight wear boots with the same markings as those who stole the pendants and the rest from Tiridates’ palace. You can rest assured they serve the same master.”

  “Demons,” Aberius said incredulously. “The man wants us to fight demons for this treasure.” A mutter of agreement rose from the others, but Conan spoke quickly on his heels.

  “What demons? I see creatures with the skins of snakes, but no demons.” Protests broke out; Conan did not allow them to form. “Whatever they look like, you killed them tonight.” He caught each man’s eye in turn. “You killed them. With steel, and courage. Do demons die from steel? And you’ve bound two of them. Did they mutter spells and make you disappear? Did they fly away when you put ropes on them?” He looked sideways at Aberius, and grinned widely. “Did they breathe flame at you?”

  Laughter rippled through the brigands, and Aberius colored. “It matters not! It matters not, I tell you! I still cannot find the trail, and I’ve not heard a word from these monsters that any can understand.”

  “I said there’s no need to find the trail again,” Conan said. “At dawn we’ll contrive to let these two escape. You can track them easily enough.”