Conan and the Sorcerer

by Andrew J Offutt

  He secured the pouch-end of the rope to a low, skinny, deciduous shrub just out of its infancy. He knew it was dangerously weak. Taking a deep breath, he wiped his palms on his tunic at the thighs, spat into them, rubbed them together again. He backed away, on the side of the balcony opposite the tethered rope.

  A running start and his leap enabled his left hand to hitch the rope nine feet off the ground. A powerful yank mid swing enabled him to slap his right hand on to the floor. He brought his left hand up beside it. He had moved swiftly enough to avoid tearing the little shrub nut of the ground, though he'd felt it give.

  Clever, Cimmerian, he mused. Now there's a railing in tin- way of a swing-up!

  Precisely because he was a Cimmerian, and inordinately long besides, he solved that problem: he gripped one iron upright at its base. Then another. He gripped the first higher up. Not without grunts, he dragged himself up thus, by sheer strength of corded muscles.

  On the balcony, he brought up the hair-rope and took it around two vertical bars. Laying hold of it with both hands, he braced himself, and pulled. He grunted, pulled... When he felt the little shrub's roots start to yield, he re-braced his feet before returning his strength to his task. That part of the plan worked; the young plant's roots tore free of the earth, and the cessation of resistance did not hurt the Cimmerian, whose backside was already touching the railing.

  He reeled in his pouch of tools. The shrub came along. Detaching it, Conan wound up and threw with such strength that the root-heavy shrub fell to earth well beyond the wall he'd just come over.

  Now, he thought while he methodically refastened the pouch and coiled the rope, those perverse Zamorian gods will surely ensure that the balcony's door is securely locked, after all!

  This was an occasion on which being wrong did not make the barbarian unhappy. The narrow door that gave from house on to balcony was not locked. Conan entered the home of Hisarr Zul.

  Despite his many cares, he was still the impetuous youth who'd have died under Yara's lions but for the Nemedian thief: he had no idea where in this house of two two-storied wings the Eye of Erlik might be-and he had no idea what the thing looked like.

  He had made certain surmises. An amulet meant a smallish object, probably on a thong or chain. As its true owner was a king or rather satrap, surely it was a chain, not a thong, and likely a golden chain at that. Why was it called the Eye of Erlik? Well... most likely it was a figurine. Erlik, the Yellow God of Death, had yellow or greenish-yellow eyes. A little figurine then, on a gold chain, with topazes or pale emeralds for eyes. And surely it would be wrought of gold.

  Having thus logically worked it out in his own mind, Conan assumed his conclusions to be true. Next: where would it be?

  Not in plain sight, surely —but not in a treasure chest stored away, either. This room neither felt nor smelled lived in. On the assumption that Hisarr would keep such a treasure somewhere near to hand, to gloat over, Conan found the door and departed the chamber.

  Minutes later he was moving along a corridor lit dimly by a dragon-shaped oil lamp slung from the ceiling on a brazen chain. Impatient with himself and his lack of knowledge, he had decided to discover and mark Hisarr's whereabouts, in order to search elsewhere for the amulet.

  Hearing that was almost preternaturally keen apprised him of the approach of stealthy footsteps. Two swift barefoot paces carried Conan to a door; he pushed it open cautiously to reveal one more of too many rooms, all unlit. This one seemed bare but for a huge statue that appeared to be of jade, and a big black chest that probably contained the paraphernalia of this god's worship. From inside, with the door not quite closed, the Cimmerian watched the passage of a man he realized was familiar: the easterner from the inn last night! A thief, surely, as the fellow had responded to Conan's invocation of the thieves' god.

  Staring, Conan remembered that he'd been told another foreigner had been asking questions this day, about Hisarr Zul. He had naturally assumed the man to be Karamek of Zamboula, despite a sponge-pedlar's remark that the man was surely from doubly distant Iranistan. Conan knew nothing of that land. Zamboula lay far south of Arenjun, with desert between. Iranistan was even farther south, wasn't it?

  Wondering if his presence and that of the man in the sleeved, striped shirt and khilat were coincident or if the Iranistani was also on a mission concerning the amulet, Conan watched the other man pass. The corridor with its pink-tiled floor ran straight for twenty feet before it reached I he manse's centre, and branched. The Cimmerian waited. When he was convinced that the other man should have turned, he peered out. The corridor was empty.

  Conan was just about to slip out of his refuge when he heard more footsteps, coming from the same direction as hail the Iranistani; the direction in which Conan had been headed.

  Crom! The corridor was as busy as the market-place at noon-time! Conan eased back, eased the door to within an inch of closure.

  This time he watched the approach of three men in martial livery: silent, grimly purposeful men. AH wore spike-topped helmets, jerkins of silvery scale-mail over green-bordered white tunics, and greaves in the Corinthian manner. Each bore a sword naked in his fist and wore a sheathed dagger as well. They carried no bucklers. The watching barbarian stared.

  These guardsmen of Hisarr Zul were... weird, horripilating. They plodded along without a word, as if brainless, each with dull fixed eyes set in stupidity? - no, hopelessness! They looked like over-whipped dogs or refugees from some legion of lost souls. Yet... they were purposeful, too; single-minded in their quiet pacing. Why, their buskins were soled with the sponge brought so expensively across from the sea, for the lining of helmets!

  They passed, following the Iranistani whether by chance or design. Again Conan set himself to wait. Those men did not look alert; indeed, they appeared drugged. He felt that with his stealth he could step forth and be on his way in the opposite direction without their ever turning to notice-but he was in no such hurry. He'd not r»k it. He waited.

  When he looked, the third of that eerie trio was vanishing along the leftward corridor. Conan heaved a sigh, wiped his palms, and left the room.

  He had taken eight stealthy steps when the dinsome clamour arose, from behind him.

  He wheeled to see nothing. The noise continued, emanating from the leftward branch of the corridor: iron clangs, one of metal on metal and another of deflected blade raking wall. The Iranistani, Conan thought, may or may not have found what he sought. Of far more importance to him was that the zombie-like sentries had found him.

  The sounds of battle continued. The Cimmerian could visualise it: the trousered foreigner at bay in the narrow hall, and – if he were good with that sword-long knife of his-holding the guardsmen back, for the corridors were not wide enough to allow them to attack other than close-bunched.

  Not my business, Conan thought. The Iranistani's only a rival thief. Too, I have much more freedom, with him keeping those three busy. Better I go and see whence Hisarr emerges to investigate the clamour-and I will search the room he's been in!

  The thought was intelligent, reasoned, and worthy of any thief with his mind on his business.

  The Cimmerian, however, did not even turn back to resume his investigations. Last night the trousered foreigner in the leather vest had aided him. Maybe his shouted warning and blade-use had not been necessary. Nevertheless, the man had done it. Whether thieves had codes or no, the men of Cimmeria did.

  Barefoot, Conan sprinted up the corridor towards the sounds of combat, and he reached up and back to draw his sword as he ran.

  He turned the corner to see precisely what he'd visualised: the backs of three sentries. Beyond them the rather short, dark Iranistani held them at bay, though sore beset and surely fated to be struck down.

  Conan struck as suddenly and murderously as a tiger lunging out of the dark, though as he charged he could not resist shouting, 'Up Bel!'

  'Hoho! Up Bel indeed, big one! Ah! Whoever you are, Ajhindar of Iranistan has never had a
boon so swiftly – huh! - returned!'

  The battle was very short. Indeed, it proved no battle at all.

  Two of the uniformed guards turned at Conan's voice, silent and blank-eyed and eerily purposeful. The third was just striking at Ajhindar the Iranistani. As he was to the Cimmerian's left, the latter kept the two now facing him at hay by slashing savagely at their face level so that one jerked back and the other squatted under the strike-which Terminated with Conan's edge slamming into the side of the third man's neck. The blade bit through to sever bone, beheading the sentry.

  'Nicely done!' Ajhindar called, and altered the direction of his own stroke so as to take the middle man almost identically. And one foeman remained. Into his path fell the man Ajhindar had nigh-beheaded, and the slash at Conan's right side and back came to naught; 'nicely done' or no, the Cimmerian was having trouble extricating his blade from the bones of his prey's neck.

  Ajhindar booted his victim out of the way; half-turning, Conan brought his blood-streaming blade out of his kill and back so viciously that it missed the chin of his fellow thief by inches. The guardsman ducked under that blurred sweep.

  'Ho! Careful there, big one – don't really know your own strength, do you? Hooh!'

  He'd caught hilt and knuckles in his left forearm, as the third man tried to strike in the crowded hall and Ajhindar stepped in too close to be sword-struck. Simultaneously then: the sentry's left arm swept around with his dagger aimed at Ajhindar's side; Ajhindar's trousered leg jerked up between the man's thighs; Conan struck off the hand holding the dagger so that it dangled by a few shreds of scarlet flesh. The severed artery continued to pump in long scarlet squirts that showered wall and floor.

  'Fast, too,' Ajhindar grunted, stepping back as the sentry he'd crotch-kneed came bending helplessly forward, too agonised even to scream because of his severed hand. The Iranistani kicked him in the face, whirled aside, and sword-chopped the man in the back of the neck.

  He had to wrench to extricate his long blade from the Ilbars Mountains.

  'Well! With the exception of that stroke of yours to the wrist-for which thanks, big one —very neat! We seem to have left all three with half a neck apiece and no windpipe or jugular at all! I'm glad I helped you last night, friend. I've told you my name-yours?' 'I am Conan, a Cimmerian.'

  'Ah, the black hair and blue eyes, yes. Cimmeria, eh? Grow them big up in those hills, don't they? Conan of Cimmeria: my thanks.'

  "Merely a return favour for last night, Ajhindar of Iranistan.'

  The two men grinned grimly at each other. At their feet corpses twitched and jerked and pink tiles went much darker. With his left hand, the loquacious Ajhindar checked within a tear in his trousers-leg. His fingers came away red.

  'The bastard pinked me. A piece of his nice white tunic will bandage it nicely enough, if I can find any white left wonder which one it was? Conan-why come you here this night?' Ajhindar was still smiling.

  'For a certain amulet,' Conan told his new friend, happy have one and of such prowess and good humour besides, "dear to a certain desert-bound king. And yourself?'

  'Ah gods, I feared you'd say that,' Ajhindar said softly, and struck.

  Only the fact that the Iranistani's foot slipped in a sentry's blood saved Conan then, for he had not been caught so by surprise since he was thirteen. The foot did slip; the blood-dripping Ilbarsi knife did swing out wider than its owner intended; Conan was able to avoid it. The slash aimed for his neck missed him —almost. Instead of chopping into the base of the bullish neck, it carried away a ragged piece of russet tunic-sleeve and a smaller patch of skin, from a wound no deeper than the thickness of a fingernail.

  Conan spun completely, so that when he again faced the Iranistani it was at a distance of three feet. Conan's left shoulder oozed blood; his sword was held low, angled up.

  'Damn!' Ajhindar said, almost smiling.

  'A friendship as swiftly broached as gained, friend,' Conan said, low and throaty. 'Why this?'

  'You must know: I'm here on the same mission. My employer is my own king. Yours?'

  'Me.'

  'Damn again! Just a thief?'

  Conan nodded. The man's easygoing manner and his treachery had hurt far more than the nick of his sword; Conan was bitterly disappointed.

  'Join me then, friend Conan. My king will be grateful to my friend who aided me in bringing to him... the amulet.'

  Conan considered only for seconds. 'After the treachery you just showed me? I'd be afraid to sleep, or turn my I nick, friend,'

  Ajhindar sighed. 'And from what I've seen of you now and last night, I suspect you're not ready to say, "Oh sorry, Conan... you take the Eye whilst I go along home empty-handed." Am I right?'

  'You are right, friend.'

  'Ah, you're bitter. That's youth, of course. But look here, the place is full of valuables. All yours. I want only the! amulet —'

  'So do I.'

  'Damn. And, from what I've seen of your prowess, I suspect too that my best chance against you is already taken – to remove you without chancing a fight.'

  The Cimmerian said, 'Right again, former friend. Now-; we have made noise, and surely someone's heard. I will stand away whilst you head for the nearest window, for I've no desire to slay you.'

  The Iranistani still looked sad. He wagged his head. 'Out the nearest window... and go along home empty-handed, eh?'

  'Right, friend. Empty-handed... but alive.'

  Ajhindar heaved a sigh. He kept his gaze on the Cimmerian while he squatted and, by feel, armed his left hand! with a dagger its owner was past using.

  'Afraid I cannot do that, friend Conan. I'm on a royal mission, you see. And watched. Loyalty, fear of reprisals, and so on. Is it true you Cimmerians are barbarians?'

  'So we're called.'

  Damn! And big too, and good. Well...' Ajhindar turned away slump-shouldered... and whirled to charge, long' knife extended and dagger coming up to catch a man he knew was swift enough to duck.

  Conan would not be caught twice by surprise, like some stupid Arenjuni watchman whose experience came solely from the practice field. Already he was embarrassed at nearly dying to Ajhindar's first trick. This time he struck away the other man's long knife with his own sword; dodged the dagger and twisted in so that Ajhindar's wrist struck his sword belt – and kicked the Iranistani in the left leg, hard.

  Ajhindar fought a moment for balance. With nothing but air to flail, he went down – hard – and his left elbow struck the corridor wall, also hard. The dagger leaped from his hand in a nerve spasm, as if spring-mounted. Sitting the floor with his back against the wall just beside a door with a ridiculously low-set lock, he gazed up at the Cimmerian. Conan had not followed up. He still did not want to kill this man. He was a long way from the shark-like man he'd become.

  'Damn,' Ajhindar said, looking mildly up at him. 'That was fast and good, big one. That dagger did me no more good... than it did its original owner. I suggest you do not take it up as spoils. The thing's accursed.' He heaved a sigh.

  'Well.'

  'A barbarian offers you the chance to get up and go,

  Ajhindar; there is a bond between us. No, do not expect me to come within reach of your feet. I lost a fight once because I thought I had won, and was ankle-kicked. Never again.'

  Ajhindar showed the Cimmerian a rueful grin and shook his head. He did not attempt to disguise his open admiration. 'How old were you, big one... ten?'

  'Eleven.'

  Ajhindar chuckled. 'I believe you!' With another sigh, the Iranistani started to rise. His hilt slipped on the tiles, so that he tilted and fell sidewise against the low-mounted lock of the door beside him. Instantly, with a click and a little thunking sound, a panel dropped open in the door, like a drawer. It was at shin level, had Ajhindar been standing. As he was not, the two Kharami asps that emerged from their niche behind the wall bit the Iranistani on the face and neck, twice each within four seconds.

  Jerking, groaning and looking horribly surprised rat
her than in pain, Ajhindar showed no terror. He let go his sword and grasped a yellow-banded viper in each hand and hurled both serpents at Conan-who sidestepped and, very neatly, sliced both flying reptiles in twain without striking either wall or floor with his blade. Four sections of serpent struck the corridor wall opposite the Iranistani mid dropped to writhe on the floor. The unshod Cimmerian kept out of the way.

  'You're the worst friend I ever made, Ajhindar of Iranistan.'

  'Aye, I suppose. And dead, too. Damn! All because I slipped... Well, that's that. Friend Conan, you know I've minutes, only. Do give listen without question. My employer is Kobad Shah, king of Iranist-oh!'

  Ajhindar shuddered and leaned back against the door of death. Conan saw that already the asps' particularly nasty venom, so potent it was milked for use on assassins' daggers and some arrowheads, was at work. The little trickle from a thumb-thick swelling that ran up Ajhindar's neck showed that one set of hollow teeth had sunk directly into his jugular.

  Minutes? No, Conan thought. The man had seconds.

  'Kobad Shah will pay much for what you seek, lad. Much. Don't be foolish enough to deal with a common Arenjuni fence. You know you have to – uh!' Again a shudder seized the stricken man. His face was darkening even as it swelled. His arms twitched, '-have to flee,' he said in a lower voice, and words were becoming harder for him to form and expel. 'Aren – junn... take the Eye... to -to Kobad... straight down this h-hall... the dainty little blade you s-sseeek is... in a case... in the gr-gre-e-eennn... rooommmmkh.'

  Ajhindar of Iranistan slid down the door, purple-black of face, his tongue out, his dark eyes huge and staring. The hand he had tried to raise to his chest had never got there.

  Conan gusted a sigh. 'Kobad Shah didn't give you much, friend. Just death far from home, by Morrigan! We will see who I deal with.' He glanced about. 'Meanwhile,' he muttered low, 'we've been about as soundless as a herd of horses '