On Brute's backswing Conan moved. Instead of backing, he leaped in, slightly aslant to Brute's recovery slash. With all the power he could muster, Conan brought his weapon down-The razored iron clawed Brute's arm just below the thick muscle of his shoulder, sliced through the flesh and bone, and cut into the ribs beneath, stopping before they were sheared through.
Brute's arm gouted blood and was flung away from his body by the weight of the broadsword still clutched in his hand. For a heartbeat, Brute held the hilt of his weapon in his remaining hand, with the severed arm and hand also attached to the sword's grip. Then, the sword and arm fell away, as the shock hit him. Brute fell to his knees, his life pumping into the street. He made a vain attempt to stop the flow with his hand, but it was futile; blood ran past the hand, which rapidly grew ghostly.
Brute looked at Conan, and managed a smile. "Well cut, boy. Your woman is-is . . . at the grain shed."
Conan nodded. He acknowledged the information with the only thing he could think of that might repay the bleeding man. "You fought well, Brute."
The dying man closed his eyes, and nodded. Then he toppled forward and sprawled facedown in the street.
Conan slung the blood from his sword. The grain shed. He would find it, and the one who called himself the Disguise Master.
Chapter Sixteen
A hard rain began to fall. The clouds that had been piling up through the afternoon finally made good their threat, and the first assault consisted of hail, pea-sized and noisy.
Inside the grain shed, the musty smell lay over the coarse sacks full of barley, wheat, and rye, unabated by the rumble of hail upon the roof. The Disguise Master turned away from the spectacle of the store, as the forerunner to the rain proper ended. The white of the hail covering the ground gave way to its warmer brother, as the fat-drop rain began to pound.
Where was Brute? He was supposed to have been here, bearing the injured Conan, so that the Disguise Master could witness the final stroke.
One of the footpads cackled-he couldn't tell if it was Port or Starboard-and poked a finger at the captured woman, who sat bound and propped against a stack of grain bags.
"Cease that," the Disguise Master said almost absently.
The footpad looked up from his fingering, startled, and quickly withdrew his questing hand. "By your command, master. "
The Disguise Master turned away, disgusted. To be reduced to working with such scum for more than a day or two rankled. The sooner this business was done, the better.
Where was that smelly assassin?
Neg could hardly control his hand as he reached for the Source of Light. Skeer held it out, still inside a leather bag, holding it by a drawstring as if he were loath to touch it any more than necessary.
"At last!" Neg said.
When he touched the bag, he felt a thrill run through his arm as might a current of hot fluid. He had not enjoyed such a sensation since the last time he had been with a woman, and that was many scores of years past.
Power. Power emanated from the talisman in raw waves, so much power that it bathed the room in its vibrations. Yes. Yes!
Neg tore his attention away from the device he held and looked at his agent. "My faithful servant, you have done all that I could expect. Your reward will be great."
He turned away from Skeer and moved to an oaken sideboard. He opened the cabinet and removed a cloth bag. Turning back toward Skeer, he spread the mouth of the bag so that the gold coins within caught the light and gleamed. He saw the greed in Skeer's glance, and smiled at it. He tossed the bag to his agent, who caught it deftly.
Neg returned to the sideboard and fetched a dusty bottle of wax-and-cork stoppered wine. "I have been saving this vintage for such a special occasion. Would you join me in a drink?"
Skeer smiled, hefting the gold. "Aye, master."
The necromancer nodded and cracked the seal on the wine. He produced two glasses and poured the liquid into them. The wine was the color of old rubies, and the sparkles in it reflected from Skeer's face as he raised his glass in a toast.
"To your goals," Skeer said.
"Aye," Neg said. "To my goals."
Skeer sniffed at the wine, took in the aroma, and tasted the red fluid. Excellent! He drained half the glass and smiled at Neg. His earlier fears, it seemed, had been entirely unjustified. The necromancer had been delighted, he had paid quickly and without demurring, and had even broken the seal on a bottle of very fine wine. What more could a man ask from a master?
He was nearing the end of his wine, when he began to feel somewhat dizzy.
"A problem?" Neg asked.
Skeer shook his head. "A touch of vertigo."
"Some more wine, perhaps?"
"N-no. I-I-"
Neg reached out, and Skeer thought the action was to steady him, but instead, the necromancer merely caught the wineglass in his fingers. "The glass is very expensive," he said. "I wouldn't want it to be broken when you fall."
Fall? What could he mean? Then he chanced to notice that Neg's own glass remained full, the wine untouched, and the realization fell upon him like an edge-weighted shroud: the wine, it must be-
"Poisoned," Neg said, as if catching his thought. "You served me so well in life, I should think you would serve even better in death."
Then the world went gray, and Skeer could not even summon the strength to curse as he fell. Before he hit the floor, oblivion claimed him, and Skeer no longer dwelled among the living.
Lightning flared over the gorge, and rain cascaded down the rocky walls, over mosses and lichens, drenching already-wet stone yet more. Thunder beat upon the sheer walls with loud fists, and the rain swirled on twisted winds, flying not only downward, but at odd angles seldom seen in flat lands.
On the west side of the gorge, six battered figures worked their way up the slick stone, ignoring winds, rain, lightning, and thunder. They were greatly spaced along the face of the rock, since some had fallen more than once, and had to begin the climb over. The farthest along had five or six spans left before he crested the gorge's lip, assuming he managed to maintain his grip for the remaining distance. The last in the ragged line of climbers had ten times that distance to traverse.
One of the climbers, the third in line, placed too much weight on a ledge of slick rock, and lost his footing and grasp upon the wall. He tumbled off, to fall silently to the rain-swelled river below. None of the other climbers spared him a glance. The five continued on doggedly, intent on the ascent.
As the third climber struck the water far below, another group of travelers reached the eastern edge of the gorge. What had been several thousand spiders was now reduced to only a few hundred, but their purpose, like the zombies before them, remained unabated. Without preamble, the spiders began to climb down the face of the gorge. Some fell almost immediately, others managed to cling to the wetness.
Overhead, the lightning spoke of the comic vision it saw in the gorge, and its noisy child thunder laughed loudly at the joke.
Conan led Tuanne along a narrow alleyway. Here and there, overhanging roofs jutted out enough to block the main portion of the thunderstorm, but Conan spared the deluge little care. A man would not dissolve under a little rain, and Elashi was yet to be freed.
"There," Tuanne said, pointing through the rain. "That building is the grain shed. At least it was in my time."
Conan pulled his sword free of the lizard-skin sheath. He paused under the shelter of an overhang long enough to stone the edge where it had been nicked in the fight with Brute, but no longer. He started toward the shed.
"Will you not try and take them unawares?" Tuanne asked.
"I shall not skulk," Conan answered. "Direct action would be better here."
"Even if one of them holds a knife to her throat?"
He paused. "What you say has some merit," he admitted. "Have you an idea?"
"Aye. Allow me to enter. I can ascertain if Elashi is with them, and her position, and signal you if it is safe to attack. "
/>
"I would rather not send a woman in my stead," Conan said.
"You are most kind to be concerned, Conan." Her voice was very soft. "But they cannot harm me with their blades, in any event."
"Aye. I had forgotten."
"And that is the kindest comment anyone has made to me in a hundred years," she said, smiling. She raised herself onto her tiptoes and kissed him gently.
He watched her march across the rain-sodden ground toward the shed, and, as soon as she entered, strode after her. He flattened his back against the damp wood next to the door, and waited, his sword held ready.
"Conan!" he heard, and without hesitation, he leaped through the door.
Inside, Tuanne stood with a dagger buried in her breast, facing a rat-faced man who wore an expression of profound astonishment. Next to this man stood the one known as the Disguise Master; beyond, a third man scrambled for an exit on the far side of the building, while Elashi struggled to free herself from coils of thin rope binding her.
The Disguise Master produced a crossbow from somewhere, and swung it up to cover Conan. He triggered the quarrel, and the bolt sped forth, to impale the Cimmerian.
Once, in his childhood, Conan had seen a traveling troupe pass through his village. There were singers, dancers, and those who demonstrated more martial arts. Among the latter group was a thin, whippetlike man who performed a trick that had amazed all who saw it: he dodged arrows fired at him by bowmen. For weeks afterward, Conan and the other children of the village had practiced the trick, with the result usually being bruises caused by the blunt arrows shot from makeshift bows. Due to his quickness, Conan had been hit less often than most; the trick had been to move just at the instant the arrow left the bow. A half-second later was too late.
Even as Conan saw the crossbow come up, he started his shift. As a child, he had done the trick barehanded; now, however, he held a sword, and without thinking, he swung his weapon as he dodged. The short quarrel flew, and of a piece, Conan moved and cut-and sliced the wooden shaft in twain.
"By Set!" the Disguise master yelled, as the pieces of the quarrel tumbled and hit the far wall.
He was reaching for a second shaft as Conan leaped upon him, and bisected his head much as he had the arrow.
The rat-faced man turned to flee, following his faster comrade, and Conan took two steps to chase him, then stopped. Elashi was safe, that was the thing. Tuanne already moved to untie the desert girl. The Disguise Master wore his final earthly guise, and chasing two fleet footpads through the rain appealed little to Conan. He would be running merely to deal them justice, while they would be fleeing for their miserable hides. The gods who granted speed favored those who sprinted for life and limb more than they did those who would right wrongs. That was always the way of it.
Conan turned to Elashi. "Are you harmed?"
"What," began the woman, "took you so long?"
The Cimmerian youth could not suppress a grin. Unharmed she was.
Well. This place was as good as any to wait out the rain. After that, other problems faced them, not the least of which was figuring out a way into Neg's heavily defended castle.
Neg the Malefic had problems of his own. In the special chamber he had prepared, as pristine as a god's drinking glass, the Source of Light now nestled within the crystal carved to receive it. True, there had been a surge of energies when the talisman was so placed, but it was in no way operational at the level that he needed. Something had gone amiss, and he could not understand what.
His curses echoed from the walls as he raged back and forth, trying to discern what portion of his spell was lacking. Damnation and Demons, what had he forgotten? It should work; he had done everything as the crumbling parchment directed, laid all the proper geas, spoken the incantations correctly-he was certain of it. Set knew he had-practiced dozens of times while waiting for the talisman to arrive! What in all the gods-be-damned Hells was the matter?
Easy, Neg, he told himself. Do not upset yourself. Doubtless it is some simple step, something so minor it was overlooked. He would repeat the process, taking care to observe the smallest pronunciation correctly, the most minute detail. He had not done all this to fail over some niggling matter. He would have all the documents for the spells brought here, not trusting to his prodigious memory, and he would do it step by step until he had it right.
Neg turned to face the zombie who stood silently near the entrance, awaiting the necromancer's pleasure.
"Go to my library and fetch the BiblioNecrum, the Book of the Damned, and the Black Folio. Quickly."
Skeer, gazing back at his master through dull eyes, said, "By your command, lord." He turned and shambled off.
So close, Neg thought. He would not fail. No way.
The body that had been Skeer alive now functioned as well or better for Skeer dead; it did not, however, do so with Skeer in total command. True, he willed himself to actions-walking, standing, talking-but only by Neg's leave.
Such a state grated upon Skeer as nothing in his entire career had grated upon him. Rage which had smoldered and fueled for his entire life now burned hotly within his cold breast. To be treated this way, after all he had done for Neg! It rankled, it burned, it ate at his psyche like powerful acid upon soft flesh. Given his own control, he would slay Neg a thousand times, making each death worse than the one prior, delighting in each groan his victim made, finding ecstasy in every pained expression the necromancer could field. Ah, given his way . . .
There lay the problem, squarely in his ken. He had no such control. Neg's voice commanded, and he could not fail to obey; the thunder of a god's tongue could not do more to motivate Skeer than did Neg's softest whisper. He was in thrall to the wizard, and until he felt it, had never known the true meaning of that term.
He thought briefly, as he entered Neg's library, of the zombie woman he had drenched in saltwater. He understood, now, what it was she had wanted with the talisman. Some innate sense told him that the Source of Light was, for one cursed with reanimation as he now was, a key to the true death. A touch of the power the thing carried, and he would go to the Gray Lands.
And, he thought, as he dug a heavy book from the carved ebony cabinet, was that such a bad thing? True, to walk the earth, impervious to sword or poison, would be a thing of great power, in and of itself. Unfortunately, the drawbacks made the power worthless to one such as Skeer. The smoke of the hemp-weed did not bring visions to one without breath; neither did women hold any further interest for him in the ways he had known them before. Parts of him were more dead than others, so it seemed.
He found the second volume for which he had been sent, pulled it from its position next to a bookend made from a human skull and hammered brass, and continued his search for the final book. No, being a zombie meant being unable to enjoy those things for which he had spent his entire life working-and even if that had not been so, even if he could have those things, being in Neg's thrall prevented it in any case. Neg never released his nightwalkers. Some had been in his service for hundreds of years.
That such a fate lay in store for him Skeer did not doubt for an instant.
The third book came to light, and he retrieved it. Slowly, without the slightest joy, he began to trudge back toward the crystal chamber, bearing the leatherbound-works for which he had been sent. Lapdog Skeer, he thought mirthlessly. For what crime did he deserve this? Certainly, he had offended as many gods as the next thief; the bodies of his victims, if piled up, would tower well over his head; he had despoiled women, stolen treasures, and done other things a reputable citizen would have nightmares about; still, others had done much worse, and they had not been condemned to this cruel fate!
From down the dusty corridor, Neg's voice echoed: "Hurry, damn you!"
So bidden, Skeer's legs took control, and he began to run. Inwardly, he cursed Neg, using every god of which he had ever heard.
It was, of course, to no avail.
All he could do was what Neg commanded. Do that, and wa
it, and hope something would happen.
Chapter Seventeen
"Aye," Conan said, "no doubt half the demons in Gehanna would willingly open a portal for you, Elashi. In this instance, however, I would prefer not to risk my neck on your sweet voice."
Elashi clenched her fists. "Just because we sleep together does not mean-"
"He is right," Tuanne cut in.
Elashi turned to face Tuanne. "You are taking his part?"
"Few men, if any, are as practiced in the arts of guile as Neg," Tuanne continued. "No one has ever tricked his way into the castle-not past the Men With No Eyes."
The three of them had returned to the inn, and sat alone in front of the fire, drying their clothes.
Tuanne said, "Conan's talents are many, as we both know, but trickery is not his forte."
Elashi nodded. "Aye. He is brutally honest, I must admit. One of his endearing characteristics-"
Conan grinned.
"-of which he has only a few," she finished.
Conan squeezed water from his left boot, then set it closer to the fire, to dry. "I confess I cannot see an easy way into the castle. Alone, I might manage to bypass the moat beasts, scale the wall, and fight my way past the guards."
Tuanne shook her head. "The chances would be exceedingly slender. No one has ever done so before. "
"Then what are our options?"
The zombie woman leaned toward the fire. Steam rose from her clothes, but she seemed unaffected by the heat.
"There is another way. There are dangers, perhaps as many as a direct assault on the castle itself."
Conan watched the shadows dance across her features as she spoke. She was an exceedingly beautiful woman.
"My contacts with the inhabitants of the Gray Lands over the years have given me access to certain knowledge. There is a way to travel in the In-Between Lands, and such travel covers territory in the real world at the same time."
Conan blinked. "I do not understand."
"Magic, Conan. A kind of shortcut."
The Conan Compendium Page 41
