Conan and the Sorcerer

by Andrew J Offutt

  With a smile that was pure nasty mockery, Hisarr placed a hand on his midsection and bowed. Straightening, h plucked up the amulet that hung on a thong around hi neck, beneath his tunic. He removed it and brought it the Cimmerian.

  'A precise copy, Conan my dear devoted servant, of the Eye of Erlik.'

  Conan looked at it, studied it. The Eye of Erlik was sword-shaped pendant about the length of his breast fingering, the hilt was capped with a ruby pommel. Each end of the cross-bar guard was set with large yellow stones, barred each with a single black stripe.

  Those stones, about an inch apart, seemed to be eye that stared into his from either side of a long and pointed nose.

  Wear it,' Hisarr said, dropping it into the Cimmerian': palm. 'Perhaps you will find a use for it. Of course, it should be called the Sword of Erlik, or at least the Eyes – plural —but the world is not ruled by logic, my barbarian of Cimmeria. Now: once you are on the desert, the first oasis is two days' hard ride to the south. If you follow the clear trail, you will ride eastward from Arenjun for about an hour, and then turn due south and continue thus. The woman of Zamboula is on that course.'

  'You – know this?' The Eye was a warm metallic presence against Conan's chest.

  'I know it, Conan my dear servant. It is not for you know how I am certain; I am Hisarr Zul, and I have my ways. Four hours have passed since I came to find you here. Do you merely follow that course. You are rested, and big and strong; you should gain on her by minutes eve: hour. Go.'

  'My sword... I have no horse...'

  'You are a thief, and have stolen coin secreted somewhere. I want nothing of the dead Iranistani; take his possessions. and a horse. I would suggest, too, a khilat or kafiyeh. Your sword stands beside the rear door, with your belt. It without a point, but serviceable. You are not so, with those arms!'

  Conan looked down. For the first time he saw that his sword was missing, along with sheathed dagger and sword scabbard. That he had not noticed instantly bespoke the fear on him of the yellow powder and its antidote-and the horror at having lost his soul.

  He hoped his pouch was where he had left it. He was not sure how long he'd been within Hisarr's manse; surely many hours longer than he'd minded. Hisarr's slightly bulging eyes were staring; Hisarr's excellent voice was speaking, telling Conan how to reach the rear door of his mansion home. By that door he would leave... not as a guest, not even as a thief, but as it servant.

  Conan glanced longingly at the mirror, and considered hidden violence.

  'Only I can regain your soul from it, barbarian,' Hisarr M.I id, stepping back. 'It will be safe with me for... let us say, one month.'

  'Zamboula is farther than the journey of a single month!'

  'See that you overtake her far sooner, then! Do you want 'inducting hence? Go, servant.'

  Conan's glance followed the direction of Hisarr's gesture. Two more of the uniformed guardians had entered by the door. Each held a naked sword. Each stared, empty-eyed; lost. A thousand ants seemed to creep up the man's spine as he looked on those two dully purposeful men, once thieves. Once men.

  Soulless, he thought, and hated Hisarr Zul for seeing his shudder.

  Conan started for the door, trying to regain the wonted net of his broad shoulders, his lithe, confident swagger. 'I will tarry beside the Iranistani,' he said, and did so, a few seconds later.

  The corpse was hideous and nauseous, a thing that had once been a man, now gone violently dark purple and

  swollen like a dehiscent seed pod seconds from bursting.

  'I'll not strip you, friend,' Conan muttered. 'You can help me a bit more, though.'

  He pretended calm while he appropriated the Iranistani's weapon belt. From it were slung a sheath for dagger and sword-long Ilbarsi knife, and a pouch. Conan buckled off the belt, hoping that the pouch was coin-stuffed even while he doubted. Picking up the long blade from the Ilbars Mountain country, he sheathed it at his side.

  'Show me the way out of this place.'

  The two staring, silent guards did. His own weapons and belt were there at the door, with the coil of rope. Conan buckled his broad belt on over that of Ajhindar. One of the soulless men held the door wide for his departure into the night not yet lightened by pre-dawn.

  'You have no soul,' the Cimmerian said, pausing in the' doorway. 'Would you go on serving the man who stole it? Would you like the gift of death?'

  For the first time then, Conan had speech of one of the guardians of Hisarr Zul.

  'To live soul-less is to be dead while alive, Cimmerian. To die without a soul is worse.' And the once-man closed the door almost on Conan's heel.

  Conan departed in horripilation. The voice that had pronounced those lost, awful words had been that of Hisarr Zul.

  IV. At the Oasis of Death

  In an oasis that was indeed a long two days' ride from Arenjun, Conan lay on his back and stared unseeingly up at a sky besprent with stars like a million scintillant jewels or a million staring eyes. Nearby his new horse rested. A few yards away, a horse of one of the other visitors to the oasis snorted.

  Soulless, Conan thought, and hated Hisarr Zul for seeing him shudder, for making him helpless.

  Yet did it matter? Conan wished that he could be sure. The grim Lord of the Mound who was Cimmeria's chief was savage and gloomy. He promised no life after this one. At birth, he breathed power into the souls of men; whether to strive and slay. 'What else,' Conan's father had said, 'should one ask of the gods?' Well, other men of other lands asked much more, and believed much more. If only Conan could be sure. If this life were all there was, soul meant nothing.

  Yet... that feeling of emptiness remained in the Cimmerian, and he knew it would until he had regained from Hisarr Zul the contents of that horrid little mirror. Let someone else say that it was mere suggestion, and Hisarr's eyes; Conan knew that he had been plagued by the sensation once upon awakening, before the mage showed him the mirror and explained its portent.

  After two days, Conan still cursed the wizard who had become the most literal master of his soul.

  From time to time he also cursed himself. He should have behaved more sensibly in many ways, and the last was that he should have stripped the corpse of Ajhindar of Iranistan. It was a victorious combatant's due. The man's sleeved shirt and loose trousers would have saved Conan coins — which he could have spent on provisions.

  He rode the best horse he could afford, wore the cheapest protective clothing available, and had only his own pointless I sword for defence.

  His money, as well as the contents of Ajhindar's purse and his excellent Ilbarsi blade, had clothed Conan and bought scanty provisions; Ajhindar's belt and truly excellent dagger had to go to provide more food for a journey that might last days or a fortnight. That it would last longer was inconceivable; Conan had to be back in Arenjun! within a month.

  Thus had he left Arenjun, knowing that he was well mounted, indifferently armed, and poorly provisioned for day after sweltering day on the desert beneath a sun become deadly enemy.

  During the afternoon of the second day, the horse-which Conan called 'Horse' — was complaining and showing impeded strength from lack of water. Confident of reaching the oasis, his new master had brought little. A man could endure much when he must, the Cimmerian knew; so could a horse. And then the oasis was in sight, and Horse smelled its sweet breath of water-scented air, and Conan had merely to sit his back. Horse knew where he was going.

  Horse had brought him here to the oasis, and after that Conan had only to hold the beast back from swelling his belly with too much water too soon.

  During those two days Conan had had much time to think. Thievery, he mused, was a precarious trade. So were many others, but thievery contained even more risks: law and the authorities, in addition to the angered objects of robbery. Now he knew, having met Isparana and Karamek and Ajhindar, that other thieves, good thieves as he was, had patrons. They stole for others, for this reason or that. They were paid —and presumably equipped
, and afforded some protection or backing in the event they fell into the hands of the law. Now the Cimmerian knew that even kings hired thieves.

  Certainly that was a better way for a man to further his chosen career!

  A youthful hillman could dream of crowns and soft women, but it was not likely he'd ever wear that one or night with the other.

  Once this revolting rewardless job was done and he had soul back off that scurvy Hisarr, he'd explore the possibilities of improving himself; try to bring himself to the attention of moneyed employers.

  Meanwhile, he and Horse had their bellies full of water, at least, and on the morrow he'd leave here with more. Hotter to travel in the cool of the night, but Horse badly needed his rest.

  Unexorcisable thoughts continued to crowd Conan's mind us he lay restlessly awaiting sleep in the officially nameless oasis some called Breath of Arenjun and others Sight of Kherdpur; the name depended upon the destination of the livelier. Over him lay the old cloak he had stolen three nights previous; nights on the desert were cool. Nearby Horse stood tethered, asleep.

  On the far side of the pool of good water with its ring of hardy grass and shading palms were the men Conan had found here on his arrival. The three had exchanged few words.

  Obviously the other two had been lying up, preparatory in travelling by night with their two camels and one handsome jasper-hued horse. No more anxious than they to hold in verse, Conan forced his mount to the pool's southern hank before allowing him to drink.

  The Cimmerian had slaked his thirst by lying prone beside his noisily sucking horse. Across the pool, one of the other two pilgrims watched, for lack of aught else to do, 'Conan assumed. He rose, tucked back into his tunic the false Eye of Erlik that had fallen forth, and commenced persuading Horse to leave off trying to suck the pool dry. The other man, dark and Hyrkanianly hawk-nosed under his white kafiyeh, looked away. He did not even glance over when Conan found it necessary to drag Horse physically away from the water. That the poorly-cloaked youngster was able to do so would doubtless have surprised the other traveller, had he been watching. Certainly his master's strength surprised the horse.

  We'll both fill our bellies again at daybreak, Water-hog,' Conan had told the animal, which now bore a name.

  Now the horse slept while his penurious master strove to quell the tidal activity of his restless mind. He did wonder, idly, why the other two men had not yet departed.

  Had the Cimmerian found sleep at once, he might never have wakened. The unnamed oasis called variously Sight of Kherdpur and Breath of Arenjun was about to become the Oasis of Death.

  Though Conan did not know and would not have cared had he known, the two men with whom he shared the benefices of the oasis were from Samara, in the Misty Mountains to the south-east. They were entrepreneurs of a special sort. Presently they were journeying to Shadizar of Zamora to sell a motley assortment of goods, none of which had been gained through trade. Perhaps next time they'd be able to afford four or five camels...

  One of them, Uskuda, had been to Zamboula more than once, along the caravan route from the Colchians. He had seen the amulet always worn by the satrap who ruled 'Zamboula for Turan. He assumed it to be valuable; it was a kinglet's. Just at sundown this night, he had seen that, amulet again – or so he thought. Surely such a royal prize would nigh double his and his partner's profits, up in Shadizar the Wicked.

  The newcomer was manifestly weary. Uskuda waited a long hour, and more.

  Now, taking the end to bring him around opposite Conan's sleeping horse, Uskuda the Samaratan crept around the cabochon-shaped pool of water. His dagger was not yet drawn. Crouching, he drew it only when he was no more than two body-lengths from the supine, cloak-covered northerner.

  Dagger in hand, Uskuda straightened in a rustle of trousers under desert robes and rushed those few intervening feet to fall dagger-foremost on the other man.

  That rustle was not the first knowledge Conan had that the man was creeping upon him. He was unable to imagine himself the object of robbery, but was ever as untrusting and expectant of baseness as he was alert. He had devoted several minutes to letting his right hand creep out to the hilt of his sword, and easing it back under the cloak atop him. His left hand, meanwhile, had eased across his chest to the far rightward top of that faded russet mantle.

  Though few indeed were the human ears that could have distinguished the whisper of Uskuda's dagger leaving its sheath, Conan heard. Now he heard the rustle of cloth, and the first two of the other man's rushing footsteps.

  Conan's left hand whipped away the cloak while his right brought up the sword. At the same time, his stomach muscles tensed into stony hardness and his upper body came up from the ground.

  His extended sword met the attacker between navel and itch.

  The force of his assailant's charge knocked Conan back in the ground. It also sent every wisp of breath gushing from Uskuda's lungs. He was not, however, spitted on the sword. Perhaps he was cut a little, through his bulky clothing, and perhaps not; it did not matter. The attempt at murder —it would have been his eleventh, in a matter of fact —failed.

  The iron muscles of Conan's right arm strained and bulged. He not only kept the other man from falling on him, but indeed hurled him aside, to his right. Only then did the Cimmerian remember that he had sought to pierce a man with a sword no longer suited for such work.

  Within three seconds more Conan was on his feet. His assailant rolled away, gasping. Though fighting noisily for Iolanthe and hurting low in his gut, Uskuda also got to his feet. As he came up, so did his sword. He had dropped his dagger.

  The Cimmerian drove in and struck hard, full of righteous anger. Uskuda dodged away, the while slashing at Conan's thighs. Both blades sheared the air only and Conan knew this was an inexperienced blade-fighter. From new directions, the two crouching men again faced each other with bared teeth and slightly moving swords.

  Uskuda feinted a short thrust. Conan twisted aside and, turning completely around, directed a whistling slash at the other's neck. Uskuda squatted under that killer sweep and chopped at Conan's legs. Bounding high, Conan rushed on past Uskuda, who turned crouching. He knew now that he faced a deadly foe.

  'I give it up,' the man from Samara said. 'I thought you were someone else!'

  And while the Cimmerian paused to consider that offer l peace, Uskuda risked all in a long lunge that should have

  covered the barbarian's genitals with blood from his intestines.

  It did not; with a clang that was like the striking of great gong in the stillness of desert night, he struck, stabbing blade away. So forceful was that stroke that Uskuda's right arm was carried far out to his right, almost horizontal from the shoulder.

  Not only had Conan's stroke been slowed by its clangorous impact with the other man's blade, the Cimmerian was both faster and stronger. Thus he recovered first. His back slash chopped deeply into Uskuda's right thigh, just at knee. From the would-be assassin's lips burst a ghastly sound, neither a moan nor a cry and yet both.

  Even as his leg buckled, Uskuda tried to strike with sword. The leg collapsed faster than the arm could move.

  Conan's arm had barely slowed. His sword blurred, catching the moonlight in a silvery flash. When he yanked the blade free of the other's leg, it trailed blood that rode the air in scarlet streaks and droplets. He added momentum and force by spinning completely around again, and this time chopped nearly through Uskuda's left arm, immediately below the shoulder.

  Uskuda fell. He bore two deep, blood-gushing wounds and had but one hand to grab himself with. He clutched at neither wound. Now that he felt death more imminent than the dawn, he thought only of vengeance, if he thought at all. Twisting on the sandy ground, he struck at Conan's shins. The blow was weak; Conan was leaping upward; the sword's edge skinned the sole of his right sandal. Then Conan's foot came down on a wrist. Bones crackled and the sword leaped from nerveless fingers and Conan's sword chopped into Uskuda's chin and neck.

  T
he Cimmerian twisted his unpointed sword to get it free of one who had less than a minute remaining in this world. Turanian Erlik's arms were outstretched for another guest in his domain of death.

  For a few instants the Cimmerian stood looking clown at his attacker, reflecting on the difference between honest thieves such as he and idiots like this who sought to slay first and seek what might be there in booty after. Then Conan's ears gave him reason to spin around.

  'You-you killed Uskuda!'

  True in a few seconds,' Conan said equably. 'You tried to stab me as I slept. I was not sleeping.'

  The second man failed to perceive the illogic of seeking vengeance for a partner who'd got precisely what he deserved. He charged. Conan struck hard at his curved sword and kicked so hard that the man staggered several steps backward and fell into the pool. He dropped his weapon, Conan waded in. First fetching the flailing, spluttering man out so as not to spoil the water, the Cimmerian slit his throat.

  The night was again still but for the nervous whickering of horses. Wiser camels remained hunkered down in their Kneeling postures of rest, and merely stared with mild interest. They had never stopped chewing.

  Conan stood victorious; to him went the spoils.

  V. The Dragon Hills

  Before dawn Conan rode south on the well-rested horses of those who had sought to slay him. Behind him plodded a water-hog, at the end of a long tether made of the hair of dead women. His newer beast Conan called Horse.

  The Cimmerian now wore a handsome vest of tooled leather, a much better cloak, and a kafiyeh with a chrysoberyl in its double band of woven black horsehair, and a pair of boots into which, fortunately, their former owner's blood had not spilled. A curved eastern sword hung at his left hip, and two daggers; his own truncated sword was slung in its shagreen scabbard from the pommel of his saddle.