Knees bent, Conan set his broad back to the uphill side of the boulder he had chosen and heaved.
Shrieks of primordial rage echoed over the hills. The Cimmerian's every thew strained, great muscles corded and knotted till they seemed carved from some more obdurate substance than the stone with which he fought. The boulder shifted a fingerwidth. The howls came closer. In moments the foul creature would be upon him. The sweat of effort at the limits of human ability rolled down Conan's face and chest.
The great stone moved again. And then it was rolling free.
Conan spun in time to see the boulder strike the now narrow crack in the hillside, bound into the air, and catch the monstrous creature full in the chest. Even as the beast was borne backward down the slope, screaming and clawing at the massive stone as if it were a living enemy, Conan set off at a dead run diagonally down the hill, leaping crevices with reckless disregard for the dangers of falling, racing toward the barrier.
He did not intend to leave the Inner Circle yet, but neither did he believe the boulder would slay the one-eyed beast. He would not believe that being could die until he had seen it dead. Or perhaps it already was; he had seen stranger things. But in the Outer Circle, the unseen things with claws had feared to approach the barrier. Could he reach those deadly wards before the one-eyed creature freed itself, it was possible the monstrous being would not search for him there.
Through curtains of noxious mist Conan ran like a ghostly panther past pools of bubbling, steaming mud and geysers that sprayed boiling fountain' into the night. The columns marking the barrier appeared ahead in the sickly sallow moonlight.
In a silent rush the one-eyed beast hurtled from the fog, lunging for Conan. Desperately the Cimmerian threw himself aside; scythe-like claws ripped across the front of his tunic, slashing it to tatters. He rolled to his feet, broadsword at the ready, facing the towering creature. Rumbling growls sounded deep in the beast's throat as it edged toward him. It had learned respect for the steel that had taken its hand.
Blood trickled down Conan's chest from four deep gashes, but that was not what concerned him at the moment, nor even the fangs that hungered for his flesh. Fumbling at his belt with his free hand, he swallowed hard.
The pouch was gone, torn away by those dagger claws, and with it the powder he needed to cross the barrier. With the thought his eyes drifted toward the marking columns... and there, at the base of a rough-hewn monolith, lay the pouch and his hope of escape.
Slowly, keeping the point of his sword directed at the glowing beast, Conan began to edge sideways toward the crude pillar. The creature hesitated, and a twisted intelligence shone in its eye as it, too, saw the pouch. As if divining the importance of what lay within, the slime-covered giant dared to stand over the small leather sack, almost touching the deadly barrier. Its fanged mouth twisted in what seemed almost a mocking smile.
Thus for the beast fearing the barrier, Conan thought. An it could reason so, it would not leave the pouch for him to find, even did he manage to lead it away. It seemed that Erlik was enfolding his Cloak of Unending Night about him, yet a man was not meant to accept his own death meekly.
'Crom!' Conan roared and attacked. 'Crom and steel!'
Fangs bared in a snarl the creature dashed to meet him, but Conan did not mean to come to grips with the foul beast. At the last instant he dropped into a crouch, still moving, blade slashing across a belly of deathly argentine flesh covered with glowing slime, and ducked beneath slicing claws that struck only his cloak. For an instant Conan was snubbed short, then cloth ripped, and he was beyond the beast with the tatters of the garment dangling down his back.
Barely slowing, Conan bent to snatch his pouch from the ground, pivoted on one foot, and raced down the line of barrier stones. Stones grated close behind, and the Cimmerian whirled, broadsword striking at a clawed hand descending toward his head. Three cruel-tipped fingers fell, severed, but the mutilated hand slammed into Conan, driving him dazed to his knees.
Then he was enveloped in adamantine arms, being drawn toward the great flesh-rending teeth. Only Conan's sword arm was free of the unyielding grip, and with it he thrust his blade into that fanged mouth, the point knifing through flesh, grating on bone, bursting through the back of the beast's great head.
The creature snarled and snapped at the blade, trying with unabated fury to reach the Cimmerian, the stench of its breath flowing into Conan's nostrils. Like the iron bands of a torture device those huge arms tightened, till Conan thought his spine would snap. No longer could he feel his legs, or his trapped hand.
He did not even know if he still held the pouch that contained his sole hope of leaving the Blasted Lands.
All he could do was fight with his last measure of strength to keep that ravenous mouth from his throat.
Suddenly there was a greater worry than the beast in Conan's mind. Over the creature's shoulder he could see the marking pillars; its struggles were carrying them closer to that deadly shield. And closer. At least he would die with sword in hand, and not alone. Uncertainty flickered in the beast's blood-red eye as grim laughter burst from Conan's mouth. Contact with the barrier.
Pain ripped through the Cimmerian, pain such as he had never known. Skin flayed from muscle, muscle torn from bone, bone ground to powder and the whole thrown into molten metal, then the torturous cycle began again. And again. And....
Conan found himself on the ground, on hands and knees, every muscle quivering with the effort of not falling flat on his face. Through blurred eyes he saw that he still clutched his pouch in a death-grip. He still had his means of escape from the Inner Circle, and in some fashion he had survived touching the barrier, but one thought dominated his swirling brain, the desperate need to regain his feet, to be ready to face the monster's next attack. His broadsword lay before him. Lurching forward, he grabbed the worn leather hilt, and almost let the blade fall. The leather was cracked and blistering hot.
Abruptly sound crashed in on him, crackling and hissing like a thousand chained lightning bolts, and Conan realised that he had been deaf. Shakily he scrambled to his feet... and stood staring.
The beast lay across the barrier, twitching as scintillating arcs of power rose from one part of its body to strike another. Flames in a hundred hues lanced from the already blacking hulk.
A grin began on the Cimmerians face, and died as he stared at the barrier. He was no longer within the Inner Circle. How he had survived crossing the barrier-perhaps the monstrous vitality of the beast had absorbed the greater part of the deadly force, partially shielding him-did not matter. What mattered was that he had but enough of the required powder to cross that boundary once. Did he enter again, he would never leave.
In silence he turned his back on the still-jerking body of the beast, on the Inner Circle, a dark light in his eyes that boded ill.
XXI
Akeba and the others were huddled around a tiny fire when Conan strode out of the Blasted Lands, wiping glittering black blood from his blade with the shredded remnants of his cloak. The Cimmerian announced his presence by tossing the bloody rag into the fire, where it flared and gave off thick, acrid smoke.
All three men leaped, and Sharak wrinkled his nose. 'Phhaw! What Erlik-begotten stench is that?'
'We will return to the yurts,' Conan said, slamming his sword home in its shagreen sheath, 'but only briefly, I must get Samarra's help to reenter the Inner Circle.'
'Then you found nothing,' Akeba said thoughtfully. He eyed the dried blood on Conan's tattered tunic, the pouch crudely tied to his swordbelt, as he added, 'Are you certain you want to go back, Cimmerian?
What occurred in there?'
Tamur spoke. 'No!' Everyone looked at him; he scrubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand before speaking further. 'It is a taboo place. Do not speak of what happened within the barriers. It is taboo.'
'Nonsense,' Sharak snorted. 'No harm can there be merely in the hearing. Speak on, Conan.'
But the Cimmerian was of
no mind to waste time in talk. The night was half gone. With a curt, 'Follow me,' he started off into the night. The others kicked dirt over the fire and hurried after.
As soon as they arrived at Samarra's yurt, Conan motioned the rest to wait and ducked inside.
The interior was dark; not so much as a single lamp was lit, and the big charcoal fire was coal ash.
Strange, Conan thought. Samarra, at least, would have remained awake to hear what he had found. Then the unnatural silence of the yurt struck him. There was a hollow emptiness that denied the presence of life.
His broadsword eased into his hand almost of its own accord.
He started across the carpets, picking his way among the scattered cushions. Suddenly his foot struck something firmer than a cushion, yet yielding. With a sinking of his stomach, he knelt; his fingers felt along a woman's contours, the skin clammily cold.
'Conan! Look out!' Akeba shouted from the entrance.
Conan threw himself into a diving roll, striking something that bounced away with a clatter of brass, and came up in a wary crouch with his sword at the ready. Just as he picked out the shadow of what could have been a man, something hummed from the entrance and struck it. Stiffly the dim shape toppled to the ground with a thud.
'It's a man,' Akeba said uncertainly. 'At least, I think it's a man. But it did not fall as a man falls.'
Conan felt around him for what he had knocked over. It was a lamp, with only half the oil spilled.
Fumbling flint and steel from his pouch, he lit the wick. The lamp cast its light on the body he had stumbled over.
Samarra lay on her back, dead eyes staring up at the roof of the yurt. Blended determination and resignation were frozen on her features.
'She knew,' Conan murmured. 'She said if I entered the Blasted Lands many would die.'
With a sigh he moved the light to the shape that had fallen so strangely. Akeba's arrow stood out from the neck of a yellow-skinned man in black robes, his almond eyes wide with disbelief. Conan prodded the body with his sword, and started in surprise. The corpse was as hard as stone.
'At least she took her murderer with her,' Conan growled. 'And avenged your Zorelle.'
''Tis not he, though he is very like,' Akeba said. 'I will remember to my tomb the face of the man who killed my daughter, and this is not he.'
Conan shifted the light again, back to Samarra. 'I could have saved her,' he said sadly, though he had no idea of how. 'Had she told me... Yasbet!'
Leaping to his feet, he searched furiously through the other curtained compartments of the yurt. The structure was a charnel house. Slaves, male and female alike, lay in tangled heaps of cold flesh. None bore a wound, any more than did Samarra, but the face of each was twisted in horror. Nowhere did he find Yasbet.
When he returned to Akeba, Conan was sick to his stomach. Many would die if he entered the Blasted Lands. Samarra had said there were many branchings of the future. Could she not have found one to avoid this?
'Jhandar sent more than this one to follow us,' he told the Turanian. 'Yasbet is gone, and the others are dead. All of them.'
Before Akeba could speak, Tamur stuck his head into the yurt. 'There are stirrings....' His eyes lit on Samarra's body in the pool of lamp light. 'Kaavan One-Father protect us! This is the cause! We will all be gelded, flayed alive, impaled-'
'What are you talking about?' Conan demanded. 'The cause of what?'
'The yurts of the other shamans,' Tamur replied excitedly. 'Men are gathering there, even though none like to venture into the night this close to the Blasted Lands.'
Akeba grunted. 'They must have sensed the death of one of their own.'
'But they'll not find us standing over the bodies,' Conan said, pinching the lamp wick between his fingers.
The dark seemed deeper once that small light was gone. He started for the door flap.
Outside, Sharak leaned on his staff and peered toward the distant torches that were beginning to move toward Samarra's yurt. The mutters of the men carrying those lights made a constant, angry hum. The old astrologer jumped when Conan touched his shoulder. 'Do we return to the Blasted Lands, Conan, we must do it now. This lot will take it unkindly, our wandering their camp at night.'
'Yasbet is gone,' Conan told him quietly, 'taken or slain. Samarra is dead.' Sharak gasped. Conan turned away, and Sharak, after one quick glance at the approaching torches, fell silently in behind the others.
As four shadows they made they made between the dark yurts, out onto the plain, and hurried toward their camp, ignoring as best they could the rising tumult behind them. Then a great shout rose, a cry of rage from a hundred throats.
Akeba quickened his pace to come abreast of Conan. 'They have found her,' the Turanian said, 'but may not think we slew her.'
'We are strangers,' Conan laughed mirthlessly. 'What would your soldiers do if a princess of Aghrapur were murdered, and there were outlanders close to hand?'
The Turanian sucked air between his teeth. 'Mitra send us time to get to our horses.'
With no more words the four men broke into a run, Conan and Akeba covering the ground with distance-eating strides. Tamur ran awkwardly, but with surprising speed. Even Sharak kept up, wheezing and puffing, and finding breath to complain of his years.
'Awake!' Tamur cried as they ran into their dark camp. The fires had burned low. 'To your horses!'
Nomads rolled instantly from their blankets, booted and clothed, seized their weapons, and stared at him blankly. 'We must flee!' Tamur shouted to them. 'We stand outside the laws!' Leaping as if pricked, they darted for the horses. Tamur turned to Conan, shaking his head. 'We shall not escape. We ride reedy coastal stock. Those who pursue will be astride war mounts. Our animals will drop before dawn, while theirs can maintain a steady pace all the way to the sea.'
'The pack horses,' Conan said. 'Will they carry men?'
Tamur nodded. 'But we have enough mounts for everyone.'
'What if,' Conan said slowly, 'when our horses are about to fall, we change to horses that, if tired somewhat from running, have at least not carried a man? And when those are ready to fall....' He looked at the others questioningly. He had heard of this in a tavern, and tavern tales were not always overly filled with truth. 'We have several extra mounts for each man. Even these war mounts cannot outrun them all, can they?'
'It could work,' Tamur breathed. 'Kaavan One-Father watch over us, it could work.'
Akeba nodded. 'I should have thought of that. I've heard this is done on the southern frontier.'
'But the trade goods,' Sharak complained. 'You'll not abandon-'
'Will you die for them?' Conan cut him off, and ran for the hobbled pack horses. The others followed at his heels, the old astrologer last and slowest.
The nomads wasted no time once Conan's idea was explained to them, hastily fumbling in the dark with bridles, finishing just as roaring horsemen burst from among the Hyrkanian yurts. Conan wasted but a single moment in thought of the gold from their trading, and the greater part of his own gold, hidden in a bale of tanned hides, then he scrambled onto his mount with the others, lashing it into a desperate gallop.
Death rode on their heels.
As they entered the tall, scrub-covered sand dunes on the coast, four men rode double, and no spare horses were left. The sweat-lathered mounts formed a straggling line, but no man pressed his horse for fear of the animal's collapse. In the sky before them the sun hung low; the two-days' journey had consumed less than one with the impetus of saving their lives.
Conan's shaggy mount staggered under him, but he could hear the crash of waves ahead. 'How much lead do we have?' he asked Akeba.
'Perhaps two turns of the glass, perhaps less,' the Turanian replied.
'They held their animals back, Cimmerian, when they saw they would not overtake us easily,' Tamur added. His breath came in pants almost as heavy as those of his mount. He laboured the beast with his quirt, but without real force. 'Ours will not last much longer, but
theirs will be near fresh when they come up on us.'
'They'll come up on empty sand,' Conan laughed, urging his shaggy horse to the top of a dune, 'for we've reached the ship.' Words and laughter trailed away as he stared at the beach beyond. The sand was empty, with only the cold remains of fires to show he had come to the right place. Far out on the water a shape could be seen, a hint of triangularity speaking of Foam Dancer's lateen sail.
'I never trusted that slime-spawn Muktar,' Akeba muttered. 'The horses are played out, Conan, and we're little better. This stretch of muddy sand is no fit place to die, if any place is fit, but 'tis time to think of taking a few enemies with us into the long night. What say you, Cimmerian?'
Conan, wrestling with his own thoughts, said nothing. So far he had come in his quest for a means to destroy Jhandar, and what had come of it? Samarra dead, and all her slaves. Yasbet taken by Jhandar's henchmen. Even in small matters the gods had turned their faces from him. The trade goods for which he had spent his hundred pieces of gold-and hard-earned gold it was, too, for the slaying of a friend, even one ensorceled to kill-were abandoned. Of the gold but two pieces nestled in his pouch with flint, steel, Samarra's pouch and a bit of dried meat. And now he had fallen short by no more than half a turn of the glass. Muktar had not even waited to discover that Conan lacked the coin to pay for his return voyage.
Though, under the circumstances, a show of steel would have disposed of that quibble.
'Are you listening?' Akeba demanded of him. 'Let us circle back on our trail to the start of the dunes.
We can surprise them, and with rest we may give a good account of ourselves.' Muttering rose among the Hyrkanians.
Still Conan did not speak. Instead he chewed on a thought. Yasbet taken by Jhandar's henchmen. There was something of importance there, could he but see it. A faint voice within him said that it was urgent he did see it.
The Conan Chronology Page 139
