The wine gave more color to Illyana's cheeks. It also seemed to strengthen her own will, to say no more of what might be happening to her Jewel―still less that held by Eremius.
Conan set the wine cup down and rose. If Illyana wished to say no more, it was not a whim. He would honor her judgment that far.
For no sorcerer before her would he have done this. Illyana, though, had her wits about her more than any other sorcerer, besides a true sense of honor.
It was still a cold thought to take to war, that sorcerers might not truly be masters of all the magic they called to their service.
Fifteen
IN THE TWILIGHT behind Bora, a child wailed. Was it the same one he had rescued in the village, after her parents fled in panic? Bora was too weary to care.
Indeed, he was now too weary to flee even if being the new leader of his village had not chained him like an ox to a millstone. It was a burden to put one foot in front of another swiftly enough to stay ahead of the women and children.
To slough off that burden, to sit upon a rock and watch the village file past―he was almost ready to pray for it. Almost. Each time he was ready for that prayer, he thought of the whispers of the villagers. Bora knew he was one of those men who became heroes because they feared whispers behind them more than swords and bows in front.
The twilight crept up from the valley, deepening from blue to purple. Even finding good footing would be hard work before long, Yet they could not stop.
With darkness, the demons' master might unleash them again. Even now they could be on the prowl along the villagers' trail, thirsting for blood―"Hoaaa! Who approaches?"
The shout came from the archer sent ahead to strengthen the scouts. The other archers of the village marched in the rear, where the demons were most likely to attack.
Bora was loading his sling when the reply came, in an unexpectedly familiar
voice.
"Kemal here. I'm with soldiers from Fort Zheman. You're safe!"
Anything else Kemal said was lost in the cheers and sobs of the villagers. Bora himself would have danced, had he possessed the strength. He had just wit enough to walk, not run, down the path to Kemal.
His friend sat astride a strange horse. "Where's Windmaster?" was Bora's first question.
"He was too blown to make the return journey. Captain Conan procured him a stall and fodder, and a new mount for me."
Bora saw that his friend was not alone. A massive dark-haired man sat astride a cavalry mount, and behind him a fair-haired woman in male dress, with a warrior's array of weapons openly displayed. Beyond them, the hoof-falls and blowing of horses told of at least part of a troop at hand.
Relief washed over Bora like a warm bath, leaving him light-headed and for a moment wearier still. Then he gathered from somewhere the strength to speak.
"I thank you, Captain Conan."
The big man dismounted with catlike grace and faced Bora. "Save your thanks until we're well clear of this hill. Can your people march another mile to water? Have they left anyone behind on the road? How many armed men do you have?"
"I―"
"Curse you, man! If you're leading them, it's your duty to know these things!"
"Conan, be easy with him," the woman said. "This is his first battle, and
against no human foe. You've no call to behave like your chief Khadjar with a drunken recruit!"
Even in the twilight, Bora recognized the looks passing between Conan and the woman as those between bedmates. He blessed the woman for giving him at least a chance not to make a fool of himself. Captain Qonan could hardly be more than five or six years older than Bora, and his accent showed him no Turanian. Bora still felt a greater desire to win the approval of this man than he had felt with any other, save his father Rhafi.
"We certainly will march on to water. We have few waterskins and those mostly empty. We also need food. At sunset, all those who left the village last night were still with us. Above forty of our men and some half-score women are armed.
Only a dozen or so have bows or good swords."
Conan jerked his head in what Bora hoped was a nod of approval. "Good. Then we won't be having to send patrols up the hills into the demons' jaws, to save your laggards. What of the other villages in your land?"
"What―oh, will they need rescuing?"
"Of course!" The captain bit off something surely impolite.
"Here." The woman handed Bora a waterskin. The water was cool with evaporation and pungent with unknown herbs. Bora felt the dust in his mouth dissolve and the fog blow from his head.
"Bless you, my lady."
"I am hardly a lady. Calling me Raihna the Bossonian will be enough. My Cimmerian friend is plain-spoken but right. We need to know the fate of the
other villages."
Water or herbs or both seemed to be filling Bora with new strength, with tiny thunderbolts striking each limb in turn. "I sent messengers to all the villages I thought within reach. Three returned, three did not"
"What of the demons?" The way the man said the word, he seemed to know that they were something quite different.
"They burned our village with their magic. We saw the smoke. They did not pursue us. That proves little about the other villages, though. We would have been on the road many hours before they were."
"If they believed your messengers at all, before it was too late," Conan said.
His lips curled in a smile that to Bora seemed better suited to the face of a demon.
Then the smile warmed. "Bora, you've done well. I'll say so, and I'll say it where I'll be heard."
"Will you speak for my father Rhafi, against those who accused him of rebellion?
Our carpenter Yakoub went to Aghrapur to speak also, but he has not yet returned."
"What did your father do? Or was it something he left undone?"
Bora retold the tale briefly. The Cimmerian listened, with the air of someone smelling a midden-pit. Then he looked at the Bossonian woman. She seemed to be smelling the same pit.
"Our friend Captain Shamil has a real art of charming people," she said. "Bora, can you ride?"
He wanted to say "Of course." Prudence changed his words to, "If the horse is gentle enough."
"I think you will find Morning Dew's gait pleasing. Mount and ride among your people, urging them onward. Captain Conan and I will post our men here until you have passed, then join your rearguard."
"Why can't you join them now?" Bora knew he was nearly whining, but could not help himself.
Conan stared hard at him. Perhaps it was meant to be only a curious look, but the Cimmerian's eyes were an unearthly shade of ice-blue. Bora had never imagined, let alone seen, eyes of such a shade. Their regard made him feel about ten years old, standing before his father ready for a whipping.
"Simple enough, Bora," the' captain said at last. "There's scarcely room on this trail for your people, let alone them and my troop. Would you rather have them taking to the fields in the dark, or trampled by our horses?"
"Forgive me, Captain. As you said, it is my first battle. I still don't know why the gods chose me, but―"
"If the gods want to answer our questions, they'll do it in their own good time.
Meanwhile, Raihna's offered you a horse. Are you fit to ride?"
Bora stretched and twisted. All his limbs pained him, but each had enough life to make riding a possibility if not a pleasure.
"If I am not, we shall learn soon enough." He reached for the reins the Bossonian woman held out to him.
As Bora's fingers touched the leather, he stopped as if conjured into stone.
Borne by the night wind and perhaps more, a nightmare chorus of screams tore at his ears.
Screams, from the throats of men, women and children in mortal agony.
Screams―and the howls of the demons.
Bora bit his lip until he tasted blood, to keep from screaming himself.
Conan and Raihna might also have been statues guarding the
gates of a temple.
When they finally spoke, however, their words held a calm courage that seemed to flow out of them like water and wash away Bora's fear.
These folk could be put to death. They could not be put in fear. Bora started to thank the gods for sending them. Conan had to shake him to gain his ear.
"I said, the demons must have overtaken a band of your neighbors! Either they were closer than we thought, or someone is―sending―the sounds of that battle to us. Raihna has a―friend―who can learn which."
"With the help of the gods, yes. I'm sorry, Bora, but I'll have to ask for my horse back."
Without further words or touching the stirrups, Raihna was in the saddle. In another moment she had turned her mount and was trotting off downhill.
"Bora," Conan said. "Get your people off this trail. All except the rearguard.
My men are coming up. Move, by Erlik's beard!"
Bora was already striding back uphill. He would have hung by his fingers from the top of a cliff, if it offered the smallest chance of shutting out those screams.
Two of the Transformed were quarreling over a man from Well of Peace. Over the body of a man, rather. No one could live with his bowels laid open and a leg sundered from his trunk.
One of the Transformed brandished the leg like a club. It cracked hard against his opponent's shoulder. The other Transformed howled more in rage than in pain and sought some other part of the victim to use as his own weapon.
A guard ran up to the Transformed, thrusting at them with his spear. Eremius could not hear his words, but saw his mouth working as he doubtless tried to make them hear reason. He looked down at the Jewel, lying on the ground at his feet. Only with the aid of the Jewel could he hope to save that fool of a guard.
In the next moment, the guard's fate passed beyond even a sorcerer's power to alter. The lunge of a taloned hand sent the spear flying. The guard halted, eyes now as wide as his mouth. The second lunge reduced those eyes and the face around them to bloody ruin. The guard had time for only one scream before the other Transformed rent open his chest and began feeding on the heart and lungs laid bare by shattered ribs.
Eremius shrugged. His guards were not so numerous that he could cast them away like worn-out sandals. Neither were they so few that he needed to keep such utter witlings among their ranks. Anyone who had not learned by now to stand clear of the Transformed while they fed needed no spells to render him mindless.
He had never possessed a mind to begin with!
The two quarreling Transformed now seemed loyal comrades as they devoured the guard. When they turned back to their previous victim, they seemed almost
satiated. All around them, other Transformed were reaching the same state.
Nor was Eremius surprised. The Transformed had fed on most of the men, women, and children of Well of Peace. It was hard to imagine that any had not fed full.
With their bellies packed to repletion, the Transformed were like any great flesh-eater. Their one thought was sleep. Eremius watched them drifting away from the field of carnage in twos and threes, to seek comfortable sleeping places. When he was not watching them, his eyes were on the Jewel at his feet.
He was unsure of the safest course to follow with it, other than to wear it as little as possible and use it still less. Tonight he had used it only to send the sounds of Well of Peace dying across the miles to all those who might hear and be frightened. Then he had laid it down, ring and all, and kept close watch upon it without so much as thinking of using it.
Slowly dawn laid bare the little valley, splashed halfway up either side with blood and littered with reeking fragments. The carrion birds circled high overhead, black against the pallid sky, then plunged. Their cries swiftly drowned out the full-bellied snores of the Transformed.
When the red valley had turned black with the scavengers, Eremius sought his own sleeping place. His last act was to cautiously pick up the Jewel, ring and all, and drop it into a silk pouch. The spells cast by the runes on that pouch should at least give him time to snatch it from his belt and fling it away!
Eremius did not know which will, other than his, was now at work in his Jewel.
He would have given his chance of vengeance against Illyana to know.
Sixteen
CONAN UNSLUNG HIS bow and nocked an arrow from the quiver on his back. For his target he chose a vulture feeding on some unidentifiable scraps of carrion. The smears of blood on the vulture's sable breast showed that it had long been feeding here.
Shot from a Turanian horsebow drawn by massive Cimmerian arms, the arrow transfixed the vulture. It squawked, flopped briefly, and died. A few of its mates turned to contemplate its fate, then resumed feeding. Others lacked even the will to notice. They sat as motionless as the blood-spattered stones, too gorged even to croak.
Conan turned away, resisting the urge to empty his quiver. Even the gods could now do no more than avenge the people of the sadly misnamed village, Well of Peace. When the time came for men to avenge them, there would be better targets than vultures for Conan's arrows.
From behind a boulder came the sounds of Bora spewing. Hard upon his silence came booted feet crunching upon the gravel.
Khezal emerged from behind the boulder. "Your lady Illyana says that this was demon work. Has she―arts―to learn this?"
Conan would rather not have answered that question. With a man of Khezal's shrewdness, a lie would be even worse. The death of Well of Peace had taken the matter out of his hands.
"It takes no art to see who must have done this," Conan said, sweeping his arm over the valley. "All the tigers of Vendhya together couldn't have done it. But to answer you―yes, she has certain arts."
"I confess myself hardly surprised," Khezal said. "Well, we shall place the lady in the middle of the column. There can be no safety, but there may be less danger. Also, Raihna can guard Illyana's back when she isn't guarding her own."
"Did Dessa leave your captain still hungry for a woman? Or is he only short of wits?"
Khezal's answer was a silent shrug. Then he said, "If my father still lived, I might long since have arranged matters better at Fort Zheman. With no resources save my own…" He shrugged again.
"Who was your father?"
"Lord Ahlbros."
"Ah."
Ahlbros had been one of the Seventeen Attendants, and in the eyes of many the shrewdest of them. As soldier, diplomat, and provincial governor, he had served Turan long and well. Had he lived a few years longer, he might have discerned the menace of the Cult of Doom and left Conan with no battles to fight against it.
"Your father left a mighty name," Conan said.
"But you are on the road to making one yourself, I judge."
"If I live through tonight, perhaps. And if I do, I will owe much to High Captain Mekreti. In his days as a soldier, my father was Mekreti's favorite
pupil."
Conan nodded, his opinion of Khezal rising still higher. Mekreti had been to his generation of Turanian soldiers what Khadjar was to this one, the teacher, mentor, and model for all. Had he not fallen in battle against the Hyrkanians, he would doubtless have commanded the whole army of Turan. Anyone whose father had passed on to him Mekreti's teachings had been well taught indeed.
They looked once more at the scene of carnage, then Conan walked behind the boulder to slap Bora on the shoulder. He found him companioned by a man of Conan's own age, whom the Cimmerian had seen about the fort last night.
"Bora―?"
"My name is Yakoub," the young man said. "How may I serve you, Captain?"
"If Bora is finished―"
"At least until my next meal," Bora said, with a travesty of a smile. "And that next meal may be a long time away."
"Well, then. Bora, return to those of your people who march with the soldiers.
Everyone who's not fit to face the demons in a pitched battle, send back to guard the women and children."
"No one will admit that they are other th
an fit, Conan. Not even the women.
Besides, are not some of the Fort's recruits also to be sent back?"
"Turanian soldiers go where they are ordered!" Khezal snapped.
"Yes, but if he is not a fool, their captain will order the weak ones out of the battle. Is that not so?"
Khezal looked upward, as if imploring the gods for patience. Then he cast a less
friendly look at Bora, which suddenly dissolved into a grin.
"Trained to arms, you would be a formidable foe. You have an eye for an opponent's weak spots. Yes, the recruits will be going back. But there are too many women and children for my men alone. Each village will need to send some of its fighters with their kin, and some forward with us."
He gripped Bora by both shoulders. "Come, my young friend. If you dispute with me, you will only give Captain Shamil the chance to make mischief and leave your friends and kin weakly defended. Is that your wish?"
"Gods, no!"
"Then it is settled."
"What of me, noble Captains?" Yakoub said.
"Yakoub, if it will not shame you―please go with the women and children," Bora said. "I―my family lives yet. With you watching over them…"
"I understand. It does not please me, but I understand." Yakoub shrugged and turned away.
Conan's eyes followed him. Did his ears lie, or had Yakoub only pretended reluctance to seek safety? Also, Conan now remembered seeing Yakoub wandering about Fort Zheman at dawn after the attempt on Illyana's Jewel. Wandering about, as if astray in his wits.
His wits, or perhaps his memory?
Conan saw no way to answer that, not without revealing more than he could hope to learn. Seen by daylight, however, he noticed that Yakoub showed signs of soot or grease in the creases of his neck and behind his ears.
Men who blacked their faces often found the blacking slow to wash off.
More intriguing still was Yakoub's profile. It was a youthful rendering of High Captain Khadjar's, complete even to the shape of the hose and the cleft chin.
Coincidence, or a blood tie? And if a blood tie, how close―if Yakoub was as he seemed, about the age that Khadjar's dead bastard son would have been―A horseman rode up. "Captain Khezal, we have met the people of Six Trees. Their armed fighters wish to join us." He looked at the ground and seemed reluctant to speak further.
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