The Cimmerian turned to stare into the fire. He did not enjoy talk of magic. Then again, he could think of no better way to achieve his goal at this point.
Outside, the rain continued unabated, tapping at the roof with liquid fingers. The sound lulled a listener, but Conan knew this was no time to feel relaxed. The hardest part of this entire venture seemed to lie ahead, and the path led through magic, making things yet worse.
The problem, Neg discovered, lay not in his pronunciation, but in his preparation. He had omitted a step: the crystal sconce upon which the Source of Light lay was spotlessly clean, but the instrument utilized to accomplish this deed had been the wrong one. He saw it now, and it was a natural enough mistake. Where he had translated the Kambujan word wanitakala to mean "clean woman," or virgin, it actually should have been wanitakale, whose meaning was altogether different. The "e" instead of "a" ending changed "clean" to "soiled," and instead of a virgin, he needed a trull. The ages had dimmed the manuscript and even the sharpest eye might have made the same mistake. Now that he looked for it, the word definitely ended differently than first he had thought.
So. He needed a brush made from the hair of a trull to dust the sconce. That done, the spell should proceed without problem.
"Skeer!"
The zombie appeared at the doorway.
"Go to the village and return with enough trull hair to make a brush this size." He held the hand-sized brush up. Then he tossed a pouch of coins at Skeer. "Pay whatever it takes, and hurry. I have no doubt you are well acquainted with all the whores of the village, so I expect you to return before night falls."
After Skeer had departed, Neg stood staring at the Source of Light. Such a small matter could interrupt the most complex magics. Well. It would be rectified before the day was gone. He could hardly wait.
Skeer felt the stares of the villagers burn into his back after he passed-none dared meet his gaze-and he felt something akin to shame. The rain had finally stopped, not that it bothered him, and he splashed through the standing puddles as he went to fetch that which he had been directed to collect. For the amount of gold in Neg's pouch, he could buy the hair of all the trulls in the village, and likely an arm or leg from each to go along with it. He would spend it all, to spite Neg, and cut only enough to fulfill the minimum requirements. Though he could no longer interact with women as he had before, the expression on Belinda's face-yes, she would do fine-would be interesting to behold.
That would be the extent of it, interest. All men had to die, Skeer knew that, even though he had never thought over much of his own end. Still, to be cut down in so dastardly a manner and by one for whom he had done such service . . . it still pained him more than he could begin to express. All he was missing, all he would miss-could there be a worse curse than to be faced with the things he wanted but could no longer enjoy? True Death was sweeter, and that denied him. Damn Neg to the depths of the deepest Hell!
But meanwhile, fetch the trull hair, as ordered, oh-so-obedient cur Skeer!
Determined spiders enspelled by the priests of a dark god moved faster than reanimated dead men, so it seemed. What had first been several thousand, then several hundred, now numbered only several dozen, but still they marched. Ordinarily much less sure of foot than a common window spider spinning its web in dusty eaves, the tarantulas made their way across waters and rocks, rain notwithstanding, and scuttled onward toward their goal.
Four of the things that had been men awaited at the edge of the gorge while their slower brothers finished the climb, and they took no notice of the spiders that crested the rocky lip and hurried westward.
The night began to settle upon the land, a darkening blanket laced with stars, but neither spiders nor zombies paid it heed, for neither spiders nor zombies lived for the joys of the light. It suited them, the night, for their purposes were darker than a Stygian pit, and in the surrender of sun to moon, they found, if not joy, at least a kind of unity of intent.
The spiders scuttled, and the zombies finished their climb and resumed their walk.
"It is him!" Elashi said.
Conan moved to the small and grimy window at which the desert woman stood, and peered out into the deepening shadows. The man who passed was none other than Skeer. Automatically, Conan's hand went to his sword's hilt. He felt Tuanne join them at the window, and further felt her start, stiffening at what she saw. He turned toward her.
"There is no need for that," she said, touching Conan's fingers on his sword's grip. "Skeer has become my brother in perversion."
"What do you mean?" Elashi said.
"He belongs to Neg even in death."
"A zombie?" the Cimmerian said.
"Aye. Neg's reward for a job accomplished."
Conan moved, as if to exit the inn.
"Where are you going?" Tuanne called.
"To speak with Skeer." He drew his blade.
"Do not! Your blade cannot kill him."
"He would move little without arms or legs," the Cimmerian said. "I shall carve him into slivers."
"Please, hold."
Conan paused. "You have no love for Skeer, dead or alive. Why do you ask this?"
"I have been Neg's creature for five times your lifespan. If Skeer sees you, he will likely guess I am nearby. If Neg knows where I am, he will . . . call to me. I cannot refuse his call, even though I managed to break away through his misuse of magicked salt before. I cannot bear the thought of falling back into Neg's thrall. Please."
Conan rolled the sword in his palm, then resheathed the blade. "Aye. I suppose Skeer cannot help us at this point, in any event. And I would not have you distressed."
Both women reached out to touch the Cimmerian's shoulders at the same moment. "Thank you," Tuanne said.
"And my thanks, as well," Elashi said.
The ingredients Tuanne needed for the spell to attain the In-Between Lands were, she said, simple. As the morning broke over the village, she, Elashi, and Conan went to the local market to obtain several items. Other things were not so easily located, but by noon, the zombie woman had all that she needed. Before she undertook to work the enchantment, she stopped to speak of the undertaking to her two friends.
"I have never been there," she said, "but the stories I have heard are frightening. While we have day here, it might be night there. There will be a road, as part of the spell, to lead us to the interior of Neg's castle; to leave this road is to court disaster. Even upon the path, safety can easily be imperiled, by all manner of unnatural creatures. Even accomplished witches or wizards tread very carefully in the In-Between Lands, and we shall have no such protections as they. I do not think I can be given the true death, even there, but certainly you could, and what might happen to me could be worse. You must know these things ere we attempt this journey."
Elashi glanced at Conan, then back at Tuanne. "My father walks the Gray Lands unavenged," she said, "and I will do whatever is needed to end that shame."
"Get on with it," Conan said. "Where any mortal may walk, Conan does not fear to tread. "
"Very well. Stand near me."
She began to chant, a strange, singsong melody, and while doing so, she lit a brazier that quickly filled the rented room with a spicy, aromatic smoke. The small fire in the metal pot seemed normal enough, until Tuanne tossed several items into it, changing the flame from red-orange to green, and then a blue to rival the summer skies over Cimmeria. Conan's vision began to play tricks on him, as the walls seemed to waver and bend, leaving no straight lines.
At the door, the innkeep knocked. "Are you cooking something in there? We do not allow cooking or sacrifices in the rooms!"
"Ignore him," Tuanne ordered.
The knock grew louder. "Hey! Within! I smell something burning! Is that goat flesh roasting?"
"Begone!" Conan ordered. "Else it be human flesh charring, and yours to boot!"
The knocking ceased abruptly, and the sound of hasty footsteps retreating reached Conan's ears. He allowed himself a sm
all smile.
The smoke from the brazier now seemed to fill the room; the Cimmerian could not even see the walls. Suddenly, he felt a draft, as though the window had been opened, and the smoke began to clear.
When the vapors had thinned enough, what Conan saw was no longer the inside of a second-rate inn in some small village; rather, he stood on a plateau, part of a vast plain, and the air swam with tiny motes under a blue-green sun.
He swallowed, and looked around, his hand going instinctively to his sword. To the west-if that direction was west here-lay a vast jungle. To the east, what seemed an endless desert. Northward was a sea-if any body of water had ever been the color of fresh blood-and to the south, a range of mountains that must hold up the very sky, so tall were they. He looked down, to see a narrow path beneath his feet, leading down the plateau toward the distant jungle. It was the only road in sight, and nothing stood upon it save the three of them.
Conan turned to Tuanne with the question unspoken but apparent.
She nodded. "We are here."
Elashi pointed at the jungle, the strange light making her skin an eerie blue several shades darker than the pale blue of Tuanne's skin. "Is that where we are to go?"
Tuanne nodded again. "Aye. That jungle represents Neg's castle. If we survive to attain the middle of it, we shall find ourselves past his perimeter in the real world.
"If we survive . . . ."
Chapter Eighteen
With a set of fine steel shears, Neg trimmed the last of the stray hairs from the new brush. A blonde, not that it mattered, and hair as fine and soft as a baby's. It could have just as easily been as coarse as a pig's back, for all he cared, as long as it worked.
The Source of Light nestled in its bag hung from his belt, bumping gently against his hip as he lifted the whore's hair brush and began to gently dust the already-spotless crystal. He would have hurried, but such spells were, as he had already been made all too aware, fragile. Meticulously, he covered every part of the carved mineral with the fine brush, cleaning invisible particles away. Too small to see, they might be, but large enough to foul the spell, that much he knew.
He spent perhaps ten minutes going over the crystal before he decided he had done enough. He took a deep breath, allowed it freedom, then placed the brush in his pouch as he removed the talisman.
So softly did he place the Source of Light into the niche for it that it would not have disturbed the slumber of a mouse.
There. Done. Now, to finish the incantations and see if his work had been successful.
His voice held the proper tones as he chanted the magic words, but there lay within them an additional fire now, a force he could feel. It was different from before, no doubt. It was going to work, he was sure of it!
When he was done, there could be no doubt of it. The Source of Light began to glow, pulsing as if alive, giving off a radiant light of such clarity that it hurt his eyes to gaze upon it. Power surged forth, power compared to which the earlier force he had felt was as nothing.
It began to fill him, that power, as wine filled an empty vessel, splashing within and against his walls, lighting a magic pyre upon every atom of his being.
Power! To mold as he chose! And his way was life and death, one unto the other. The energies boiled within his black soul, and he knew, he knew he could give or take life with a glance! As long as the talisman lay safely within its crystal receptacle, he, Neg the Malefic, would be Neg the Omnipotent!
He strode out into the hall. "Attend!" he said, his voice like thunder. Immediately, a dozen of the Men With No Eyes appeared.
"Guard this door," he ordered. "No one is to enter except me."
The blind priests scurried to obey. All save one.
"You," Neg said. "Look at me."
The man turned his sightless eyes toward the necromancer.
"Die," Neg said. He stared hard at the priest.
The man toppled soundlessly, until he hit the flagstones. Dead, and no doubt.
Neg smiled at his handiwork. "Live," he said, waving his hand toward the dead man.
Wordlessly, the priest lifted his head, then got back to his feet.
Neg laughed. Power! "Stay with the others," he said. The now-zombie priest moved away.
Neg turned, his cape flaring dramatically, and strode off down the hallway. He had done it! He would begin to raise his army immediately. Within a fortnight, the world would tremble before the might of Neg!
His laugh echoed along the stone walls.
Within their catacombs, the rats crouched lower, suddenly afraid.
The descent from the plateau was easy enough, although the shifting light, now blue, now red, now almost normal, played hob with the footing at times. Conan led, Elashi followed, and Tuanne brought up the rear. Thus far, they had seen no signs of life, and just as well, as far as Conan was concerned. To the north, the sea of blood danced under the colors, red, purple, nearly black, and back again. The jungle lay ahead.
Earlier, the Cimmerian had voiced his concern that the jungle stood much farther away than Neg's castle did from the village. Tuanne had answered that there was no direct correlation between distances in the real world and the In-Between Lands. A mile in one could be a foot in the other, and no way to tell which way it would translate.
Very well. Whatever it required, he would do. At times, he doubted his wisdom in pursuing this whole affair; still, a friend, albeit one of short duration, had died. Someone owed for that, and Conan of Cimmeria did not shirk his duty, no matter what the obstacles.
A wind began to blow from the desert behind them, hot and dry, offering to parch instead of cool. Dust devils sprouted ahead, swirling brown and full of dead, dry topsoil. There were two, no, three-hist! what was this?
The dust devils coalesced, compacting, growing opaque and dark. As they shrank in size, they sharpened in character, so that after a moment, what moved ahead was no longer air but solid, walking on two legs upright as did men. But no form of men were these creatures, least none of which Conan had seen or heard.
The things moved toward the human trio, and as they grew closer, Conan saw that they bore a resemblance to birds: where a man's face would be, a raptor's beak protruded from what was undeniably feathers. Large orange eyes shifted in the feathery masks; shoulders sloped to short but vestigial wings, the ends of which were hooked into obsidian-colored claws, three on each wing. The legs looked manlike, but the feet were high-arched and clawed as the wings.
Conan unlimbered his sword, swinging it back and forth to loosen the muscles of his shoulders, shifting his grip as might a man tuning a flute, until he found the proper position.
"Can we go around them?" Elashi said from behind him.
"To step from the road might conjure worse," Tuanne answered. "We could go back and hope they might not follow. "
"Nay," Conan said, "our path leads that way, and they will allow us to pass-one way or another." This was a threat he could deal with, win or lose.
"Then allow me to lead," Tuanne said. "My flesh is repellent to beasts, and not liable to damage as is yours."
"Nay, again," Conan said. "No one holds Elashi at knifepoint here."
"You should at least try to reason with them," Elashi said. "Perhaps they mean us no harm."
When the strange birds were less than three spans away, Conan raised his sword and aimed its point at the eyes of the leading one. "Ho, feathered ones! Allow us to pass in peace."
The leader, whose feathers gleamed a darker blue-black than the other two giant avians, opened his hooked bill and emitted a piercing craw! but slowed not his advance.
"So much for reason," Conan said to Elashi. "You cannot say I did not try."
Two spans from the Cimmerian, the leader of the small flock leaped, and his jump carried him twice Conan's height into the dry air. He flapped his wings, and the rustle filled Conan's ears. He did not fly well, the big bird, but he had enough power to outhop any human athlete.
The move caught Conan by surpris
e, and the Cimmerian twisted to follow the short flight with his blade, only to feel the sting of the thing's foot claws on his shoulder as the creature dipped suddenly and slashed at him. Cimmerian blood ran down a muscular arm, but the wound was shallow and nearly painless.
The birdman touched down and bounced lightly into the air again.
Behind him, Conan heard the flutter of more wings, and he spun to face the other two avian monsters. Both of them took to the air as had the leader, but this time, the Cimmerian youth was prepared for the motion. He leaped, nearly half his own height into the air, and slashed with his heavy sword. The tip of the weapon scored, digging a deep furrow into the right leg of one of the birdmen. The thing squawked loudly, and rained scarlet from the wound.
Conan grinned as he twisted to face the beasts again. Magical they might be, but they could bleed well enough.
The wounded birdman touched down, and collapsed into a heap. Surely the injury was not so great . . .
As he watched, the stricken bird dissolved into a spinning wind, becoming once again a small dust devil that quickly scattered, spraying sand over the combatants. Conan blinked against the dust, and swung his sword to ward off a second attack from the leader. Both missed their marks.
"The touch of iron is fatal," Tuanne said. "It is so with many magical beings."
"Good," Conan said.
The two remaining creatures began to synchronize their attacks, though, one darting in while the Cimmerian turned to hack at the second. They were very fast, these birdmen.
As Conan whipped around to face the leader again, he heard a startled squawk from the one behind him, then the sound of a body thumping into the dirt. When the leader dodged and leaped that way, the Cimmerian youth saw the other birdman lying on the ground, Elashi's dagger sunk in one lower leg. He grinned.
As the wind began again, swirling dust into his face, the leader of the birdmen attacked.
"Skreee!" it screeched as it dropped for Conan, all its claws extended.
The man leaped to his left and swung his sword. Feathers flew as the edge sliced into the thing's chest and tore completely through it. It must be almost hollow, Conan thought, as the leader of the attackers flopped onto the ground.
The Conan Compendium Page 42
