"Madesus?" Conan asked, dreading the answer.
Malgoresh pointed to a table against one wall of the taproom. The priest's prone, motionless form lay atop it. Conan rushed over and drew back the cloak that had been pulled over Madesus's face. The sight of his dead companion filled him with grief and renewed anger.
"The only mark he bears is a wound on his shoulder," Malgoresh said quietly.
Conan examined the shoulder wound, frowning. He saw nothing to explain how the priest could have died. The wound was deep but small, and it had missed Madesus's vitals. The priest's killer must have envenomed his blade with a lethal poison. This was no accident in a brawlhit was cold, deliberate murder.
Keeping his fury in check, Conan looked the body over for signs of any other wounds. Malgoresh had retrieved the priest's leather bag and placed it on the table.
"The battle broke up shortly after you fell," he told Conan. "Those who had the most inclination to fight were the least apt. You slew Kulg and Wenak; their brother died during the night. Aside from them, your friend was the only casualty. We've had it happen before, but not always here in the taproom. Kulg and his two brothers were Hyrkanian scum, passing through on their way to Zamora. Fate has blown an ill wind your way."
"I saw the assassin as he fled," Conan muttered. "When I catch him, he will learn what it means to cross a Cimmerian."
Malgoresh shuddered at the determination and menace behind Conan's words. He was grateful that no Cimmerian had ever borne him a grudge.
"How will you find him? His trail is cold. He must be hours away!"
"How many paths lead out of this village?" Conan asked.
"By horse, only twohthe east and the west roads. On foot, a good many more."
"Find out if anyone has seen a gray-cloaked stranger fleeing on either road. Not everyone's wits were soggy with your ale last night. I offer gold to any who saw him leave!"
Conan gave Malgoresh the best description of the stranger that he could, omitting a few details to screen out any false news. Before Malgoresh left, he brought a jug of water, a small loaf of hard bread, and a cold joint of beef to Conan. Although he had no appetite, the Cimmerian chewed at the loaf and joint, puzzling over the strange manner of the priest's death.
Conan had found two very disturbing clues when he had looked the body over. One was a small scrap of blue silk, clasped tightly in Madesus's clenched hand. The other clue was something he really had not found: the priest's amulet. It had either been picked up in the battle or stolen by the assassin. Conan found the latter explanation far more likely. As he forced his throbbing head to work on the problem, a familiar-looking face appeared in the doorway.
"Conan!" Kailash called out, shuffling unsteadily into the room. "Have you seen Madesus?"
Wordlessly, Conan stepped aside so the Kezankian could see the face of the man lying on the table.
"Mitra!" The hillman choked, his face a pale mask of shock. "How can this be? How?" He clenched his fists and slammed them against the wall, then turned his face away. "This is the work of the priestess, or of some evil ally of hers! 'Tis the only explanation. The first night of our quest and we are beaten!"
Conan remained silent.
Grief and hopelessness gripped Kailash's voice. "Beaten! Without his power, she cannot be destroyed. He said so himself. The priestess has won, and Eldran is doomed. We are all doomed!"
"We are not beaten until we lie cold upon a slab of wood or stone, like Madesus," Conan said. "Whatever may befall ushor Eldranhwe have a duty to Madesus. I saw his murderer, but was felled 'ere I could catch him.
Malgoresh will find news from any who may have seen him flee the village."
"Aye, you are right, by Mitra," said the Kezankian, pulling himself together. "We must track this fiend, hew his worthless body with a thousand sword-strokes, and leave it to be torn by buzzards! No death could be too ignoble. Then we will decide what to do about the Mutare."
Kailash was unable to overcome his fatalistic sentiments, but he could at least push them aside temporarily.
"In the process," Conan continued, "we may recover his missing amulet.
Another priest might use its power to defeat the priestess!"
"His amulethgone? How did he die?"
Conan showed the hillman the shoulder wound. "Poison, from the signs. I found this, too." He showed Kailash the torn scrap of blue silk. He had no idea that it would cause such a violent reaction.
Kailash's jaw dropped. Dumbfounded, he gripped the table to keep himself from falling. The sight of that piece of silk dealt his heart a crushing blow and sent his brain reeling. The scrap's unmistakable meaning filled him with despair. He felt as if he were living inside his worst nightmare, where all his darkest fears came true. He knew whose robe the shred of silk had been torn from. Lamici, chief eunuch of the royal family of Brythunia, was the priest's murderer.
"I am a thrice-accursed dolt!" Kailash said dejectedly, hanging his head. "I should never have trusted him, never!"
"Who?" Conan demanded, exasperated. "Speak up, man!"
Swiftly, Kailash told Conan about Lamici, and his role in the day-to-day routine of the palace. During his discourse, the dejected hillman called himself every kind of fool. The Cimmerian did not see how Kailash could have known that the eunuch was a traitor. He shook his head, wondering how solid warriors like Kailash could tolerate life in the city, with its traitors, politics, and petty squabbling. Palace intrigues would drive a Cimmerian mad in a matter of days.
Kailash fumed, red-faced with agitation. "We must hunt him down. I shall not rest until his foul heart has been cut out and his black soul rots in the deepest pit of hell!"
Conan's sentiments echoed the hillman's. A treasonous wretch like Lamici was lower than a dung-eating maggot. "Madesus will be avenged!
Yet we must not underestimate this piece of palace offal. He is either very crafty, very lucky, or both. I thought no one knew where our path led, besides Eldran himself."
"Aye," Kailash agreed, his white-hot temper cooling. "We know not how deeply the traitor is embroiled in this affair. Was he in league with Valtresca, with the priestess, or with both?"
"It matters not. Were he in league with Set himself, I would follow this whoreson into the abyss and run him through! Come, let us see what Malgoresh has found, and tend to our horses. No matter where this viper's trail leads, we must ride swiftly to seal his doom!"
Seventeen
Path of the Serpent
Malgoresh had gleaned very little news from the villagers. Most of those who had not been at the taproom that night had been asleep in their huts. When Conan and Kailash found him, the frustrated Turanian shared what meager information he had.
"One old woman was roused by the sound of galloping hooves in the night," the morose innkeeper said. "Her name is Syrnecea; she is a priestess of Wiccana and lives alone in a hut at the eastern edge of the village."
"We must speak to her," Conan said firmly, though he flinched as Malgoresh spoke of the priestess.
"Syrnecea is blind, and if her mind were an inn, she would have rooms to let, if you take my meaning. You'll learn nothing from her."
"Take us to her anyway," Conan said insistently.
Malgoresh protested again, but finally led them to Syrnecea's hut. It was small but stoutly built, and looked older than many of the huts they had seen on the west side of Innasfaln.
"She lived here before the village was settled," Malgoresh commented, as if reading their thoughts. "Some say she has seen the Year of the Lion pass a dozen times. I know not if this is true, but she was midwife for a few of the village's elders." He paused, pointing to a stooped old woman who was emerging from the hut.
Conan believed that the woman could easily be over a hundred years old.
Her flowing white hair hung down nearly to her bent knees, and her face was wrinkled like the skin of sunbaked fruit. Hearing their voices, she turned toward them, but clearly was unable to see their faces.
&nb
sp; Syrnecea's eyes were shut as tightly as window-shutters on a stormy day. She was thin, short, and crooked, reminding Conan of a gnarled tree, bent from years of strong windshbent, but not broken.
When they were within a few feet of Syrnecea, they greeted her politely. "I am Conan, from the north, and this is Kailash, a Kezankian fromh"
"Names, names. I am too old to remember names. Nothing can I know of thee from thy names. Come here, so I may know thee by the feel o' thy faces. A man's face is a window into his soul."
Conan and Kailash looked at each other skeptically. Malgoresh crossed his arms and lifted his gaze toward the sky. Deciding to humor the old woman, the two swordsmen came close enough for her to touch their faces. Syrnecea was too short to reach the Cimmerian's face, so he knelt by her, keeping his impatience in check as she moved her gnarled fingers over his scarred, squarish face. Next, she examined Kailash's face, which took less time than Conan's had.
"Stern faces o' men-at-arms," she said, letting her hands drop. "Sad faces, for men so young. Why have such mighty warriors as thee come to this humble village?"
"We seek a man you may have knowledge of," replied Conan. "You heard a horse last night, riding hard past your hut, on the road to the east?"
"Aye, most queer 'n' disturbin'," she mused. "'Twas not the sound that woke me, but the feelin' o' evil. The rider was a messenger o' death. I felt its presence, like icy fingers around me heart."
Kailash broke in eagerly. "You are certain he rode east?"
"Satisfy thy own curiosity," she said cryptically. "The horse passed within a few paces o' where we stand, tramplin' me garden."
Simultaneously, the men looked down at the recently tilled earth. A few clear hoofprints could be seen, pointing eastward.
"Thank you, Syrnecea," Kailash said gratefully. "To the east we ride, Conan!"
The Cimmerian dug out a piece of gold from his stash and pressed it into the blind woman's palm.
"A rich reward, for so little news!" Syrnecea was surprised by Conan's generosity. "Strange was the passin' o' this evil rider; I sense thy grief is linked to him somehow. I felt something else after he passed, but'twas a tinge o' goodness 'n' warmth that chased away the evil. I have sensed it before, but where, I cannot recall. Old age is a thief that creeps unseen upon me at night, stealin' away me memories as I sleep. Be ready for this thief when he comes to thee." She stopped speaking for a moment, then turned away from them. "He will someday find thee, be thee peasant, warrior or king."
They thanked her again, exchanging dubious glances with each other, agreeing with Malgoresh about the old woman's mental condition.
Refreshed by the vigor of purpose, they bid Malgoresh farewell and set off to find Lamici. The Turanian had stuffed their packs to bursting with provisions for the journey. Kailash had offered him a few pieces of gold for his troubles, and to help repair the taproom. Malgoresh had refused the offer. He had also solemnly promised to send a few trustworthy men to Corinthia with the body of Madesus. They would return the priest to Kaletos at his temple, for proper interment.
For the soul of their fallen companion, each man said a silent prayer to his respective deity. During the ride out of Innasfaln, they seldom spoke. Their eyes were busy looking for signs of Lamici's passing, and they kept their thoughts to themselves.
The eunuch proved difficult to track. Both men had skill in pathfinding, and their combined efforts were needed to pick out the signs of Lamici's trail. Many times the stony road gave no trace of his passing. They trusted to instinct and stayed near the road, eventually picking up small signs of his passage.
Although they did not know it, the route they followed had a name. By many travelers, it was known as the Path of the Serpent. Narrow and sinuous, it wound through the treacherous, craggy peaks of the vast mountain range forming Brythunia's southern and eastern borders. In places, the path was so thin that they were forced to ride single file.
They kept a watchful eye out for any evidence of bandits, especially in these narrow stretches of the path.
The midday sun was now directly above them; it warmed their bodies, but not their hearts. Conan broke the silence that had prevailed for several hours. "Why does he travel east and south, away from the city?"
Kailash answered immediately, as if he had been mulling over this very question. "Somehow, he knows where the priestess is. He must intend to warn her of our coming, or else he seeks a reward for slaying Madesus.
It matters not. We must stop him before he reaches the priestess. She may not know that Madesus is dead. When she finds out that the priest can no longer oppose her, there is no telling what she may do."
"We will catch the wretch," Conan said confidently. "No aging, city-bred eunuch can outrun a Cimmerian on a hunt. I'll not rest until his foul blood stains my blade and his black soul rots in hell!"
They made few stops as they rode along the Path of the Serpent, pausing only to let their horses rest and drink. There were many small lakes near the path, fed by narrow, sluggish rivers. Conan grumbled that they were pausing too frequently, but Kailash insisted that they keep their horses fresh for the long journey ahead. The Kezankian hoped that Lamici would drive his horse too hard and be forced to continue on foot. The Cimmerian grudgingly gave in to Kailash's argument.
The weather favored them until late in the afternoon, when angry clouds formed in the sky, cutting off the sunlight and its warmth. They had gradually climbed upward as they rode, and the air was now very cool.
The trees were still clustered thickly together, but the terrain was more rocky. They rode for several hours without finding any trace of Lamici.
The stony ground and dim light made tracking even more difficult, and Conan cursed the circumstances that had forced them to undertake this trek through these hills. He could now understand why the Brythunians feared no invasion from Zamora. Only an army of goats could have easily passed through the broken, rocky barrier formed by the Karpash Mountains. Their own horses had trouble in many places, and they had to dismount several times. They led their hardy steeds through narrow gaps of rock and up sharp inclines with shaky footing.
The going was slow. When afternoon turned into evening, Kailash estimated that they had traveled only thirty leagues. Neither man could judge the distance accurately, since the mountains still surrounded them on all sides.
"We must stop here for the night," Kailash said, sliding wearily off his horse.
"Nay, let us continue," Conan objected. "The clouds have broken, and the moon will provide enough light for us to see the path."
"Aye, enough to see the path, but what if he turns aside from the path?"
Conan frowned. '"Tis doubtful that he would. A horse could not traverse these mountains without staying on this path. There are too many trees and rocks. While these would present no obstacle to your clansmen or mine, a royal eunuch is no hill-climber. I say we forge ahead, lest he escape us."
Kailash sighed and stared for a while at the sunset. "Lead on," he said finally, climbing back up onto his mount.
They ate while they rode, without making a dent in the provisions that Malgoresh had thoughtfully provided. Conan found a bulging aleskin stuffed into one corner of his food-pack; he uncorked the skin and quickly upended it. The ale was not fresh, but he relished it anyway.
He passed the skin to Kailash.
The hillman took a generous swallow and smacked his lips noisily. "When this is over, we must return to Innasfaln and repay our growing debt to Malgoresh. His storytelling is even better than his ale-brewing."
Conan nodded. "I knew not of any Turanians who served in the army of Brythunia. Is he Turanian, or Brythunian?"
"Both," replied Kailash, taking another swig of ale. "Mostly Turanian.
His grandmother was Brythunian, a slave captured by Nemedians and liberated by his grandfather. His mother and father raised him in Sultanapur, by the Vilayet Sea. When he was a boy, they left Turan and journeyed eastward to Zamora, where most of his family still li
ves, in a village far north of Yezud. Our path may take us near there."
"To Zamora?" Conan asked with interest. "Have you been there before?"
"Years ago," Kailash said. "Malgoresh and I crossed these mountains and went to visit his family. We took a different path, one that cuts through the mountains to the south. We never went as far south as Yezud, a city full of lunatics who worship their spider-god, Zath. No sane man would traffick with those zealots."
"I was passing through your city on my way to Zamora. I have heard many tales of Shadizar and Arenjun, and of the wealth to be found there. I have heard little of Yezud, save rumors and legends."
"The worst of which are true." Kailash shuddered. "An ill-timed visit to that accursed city has shortened many a man's life span. I pray our trail does not lead there."
'The path has mostly led east, with only a slight southward bend,"
Conan noted. "We may cross into the Kezankians soon, if we do not turn directly south."
"Aye, we are not far from my homeland. Still, the going will be only a little easier in the Kezankian Mountains. Many years have passed since I have been there." Kailash's voice trailed off, as if he were lost in thought. When he spoke again, he changed the subject. "What would you do in Zamora? You are a swordsman, not a thief."
"What a soldier earns for a year of hard fighting, I would make in a day as a thief," Conan answered without shame. "Besides, you saw how much trouble I got into back at your city. Zamora is a lawless place, and its denizens care not where a man is from. The laws and customs of civilized lands are a senseless muddle to me. In Zamora, a man makes laws with his blade. I would carve a comfortable life for myself there."
Kailash shook his head. "Even a lion may be slain if he falls into a den of serpents. If you go to Zamora, watch your back, or it may suddenly sprout dagger-hilts. There are many kinds of thieves there; some of them steal more than gold!"
The Conan Compendium Page 66
