At every moment Conan expected the Jewels to return to their vengeance and complete it. Instead the steam from the spring only rose higher, until no water flowed and the gap in the rock looked near-kin to a volcano.
At last Conan felt his limbs moving with their normal ease. All his wounds were
bleeding again as he drew Raihna out of the magic. She fell against him, clad only in sword and Bora's sling.
"Run!" Conan shouted. It was an order to both of them. For Raihna it was also to gain her attention. Her eyes were vacant and her mouth slack. It seemed as if it would not take much for her to collapse and die with her mistress, letting the Jewels have their vengeance after all. Conan swore to unknown powers that he would not let this happen, if he had to carry her all the way to Fort Zheman.
Raihna had a warrior's will to abandon no fight until she was dead. Her first steps were stumbling, as if the ground was hot. The next steps were cautious, as if she could not altogether command her limbs. Then Bora took her other arm and with support on both sides she broke into a clumsy run.
They plunged down the hill to the bottom of the next valley, then began climbing the opposite slope. Conan did not know where they were going, or how long they could keep running. He only knew that he wanted as much distance as possible between him and whatever the Jewels were brewing up. Otherwise they might take their vengeance purely by chance!
Behind Conan, steam hissed and the grind and clash of moving rocks joined it. He did not dare turn around to be sure, but it also seemed that a green glow was spreading across the land.
They reached the crest of the hill with barely a single breath left between them. Conan contrived to stand, holding his comrades upright. He could not have done that and also kept running, not to save himself from all the Transformed at once.
It was then that he finally heard Illyana scream. He had never heard such a sound from a human throat. He had never imagined that a human throat could make such a sound. He did not enjoy knowing that it could.
Then the whole landscape turned green and the ground underfoot heaved.
"Down!"
Conan hurled himself and his comrades down the far slope of the hill. They rolled halfway to the foot, bruising and gouging already battered skins. What little remained of Conan's garments remained behind, as did Raihna's dagger.
Unable at last to rise, they lay and saw a vast cloud of smoke towering into the sky. It swirled and writhed and flashed lightning. Dreadful shapes in gray and green seemed to form themselves in the cloud, then vanish. The sound was as if the whole world was tearing itself apart, and the shaking of the ground made Conan wonder if this hill too was about to dissolve in magic-spawned chaos.
The shuddering of the ground and the thunder in the sky died away. Only the smoke cloud remained, now raining fragments of rock. As Conan sat up and began to count his limbs, a fragment the size of a man's head plummeted down barely ten paces away.
Raihna flinched, then looked down at herself.
"Conan, if you are going to embrace me in this state, let us seek a―a―ahhhhh!"
All her breath left her in a long wail. Then she began sobbing with more strength than Conan had thought she had in her.
Bora discreetly withdrew. When Raihna's weeping was done, he returned, wearing only his loincloth and carrying his trousers in his hand.
"Raihna, if you want some garb, I'll trade you this for my sling."
Raihna managed a smile. "Thank you, Bora. But I think it would be better cut up into strips and bound around our feet. We have some walking to do."
"Yes, and the sooner we start the better," Conan growled. Another rock crashing to earth nearby gave point to his remarks. "I think my sword has a better edge than my―Crom!"
A bladeless hilt rattled to the ground from Conan's scabbard. Raihna clutched at her own belt, to find both dagger and sword gone.
"The Jewels' magic has a long arm, it would seem," she said at last. "Well, Bora, I was right about your sling being free of magic. Would you care to try it?"
Conan reached into his boot and drew his spare dagger. "Illyana didn't touch this either." He stood. "Now, my friends, I am starting for Fort Zheman. I don't propose to stand around here gaping until a rock cracks my skull."
"At your command, Captain," Bora said formally. He offered a hand to Raihna. "My lady?"
The Bossonian woman rose, and together they turned away from the smoke cloud that marked the grave of Lady Illyana, briefly mistress of the Jewels of Kurag.
Twenty-three "So THERE YOU were, deep in the Ibars Mountains, with one pair of trousers, a
dagger, and a sling among the three of you. How did you contrive a way out?"
Mishrak sounded more amused than suspicious.
"We found help," Conan said. "Not that they wanted to help us, but we persuaded them."
"Them?"
"Four bandits," Raihna put in. "They were holding a mother and daughter captive.
The women were from a village destroyed by the Transformed. They fled the wrong way in the darkness and ran into the bandits."
"They must have been grateful for your help," Mishrak said.
"They helped us too," Conan added. "Bora and I crept close to the camp. Raihna stayed back, then stood up. Clothed as she was not, she made a fine sight. Two of the bandits ran out to win this prize.
"Bora killed one with his sling. I took the other with my dagger. One of the others ran at me but I knocked him down with a stone and Raihna kicked his ribs in.
The mother hit the last one with a stick of firewood. Then she pushed him face down into the campfire, to finish him off."
The delicate faces of Mishrak's guardswomen showed grim satisfaction at that last detail.
"And then?"
"Does it need telling? We took the bandits' clothes and everything else that we could carry and left the mountains. We saw no sign of the Transformed or Eremius's human fighters.
"On the third day we met the soldiers from Fort Zheman. They mounted us and took us back to the fort. We told Captain Khezal the whole tale. You may hear from him any day."
"I already have." The voice under the mask sounded meditative. "You left Fort Zheman rather in haste, did you not? And you took the tavern wench named Dessa with you."
"We heard that Lord Achmai was bringing up his men, to help scour the mountains for the last of the Transformed. Considering what happened at our first meeting with Lord Achmai, we decided it would serve the peace of the realm if we did not meet again."
Mishrak chuckled. "Conan, you almost said that as though you meant it. How is Dessa taking to Aghrapur?"
"She's in Pyla's hands, which are about the best to be found," Conan said.
"Beyond that, she's a girl I expect can make her own way almost anywhere."
"More than equal to the task, if you describe her truly. Is it the truth, by the way, that Pyla is buying the Red Falcon?"
"I'd hardly know."
"And if you did you wouldn't tell me, would you, Conan?"
"Well, my lord, I'd have to be persuaded it was your affair. But it's the truth that I don't know. Pyla can keep a secret better than you, when she wants to."
"So I have heard," Mishrak said. "You are no bad hand at telling tales, either.
Or rather, leaving tales untold."
Conan's fingers twitched from the urge to draw his sword. "It is not well done,
to say that those who have done you good service are lying."
"Then by all means let the truth be told. Did you intend to spare Yakoub?" A laugh rolled from under the mask, at Conan's look. "No, I have no magic to read your thoughts. I only have long practice in reading what is not put into letters, as well as what is. I could hardly serve King Yildiz half so well, did I lack this art.
"But my arts are not our concern now. I only ask―did you intend to spare Yakoub?"
Conan judged that he had little to lose by telling the truth. "I asked him to go back to his father and suggest they flee toget
her."
"You thought High Captain Khadjar was a traitor?"
"His son was. Had Khadjar been innocent, would he have told everyone that his son was dead?"
"True enough. Yet―the son might also have hidden his tracks from his father. Did you think of that?"
Conan knew he was staring like a man newly risen from sleep and did not care.
Was Mishrak trying to argue for Khadjar's innocence? If he was not, then Conan's ears were not as they had been, thanks to Ulyana's magic.
"I did not."
"Well, let us both consider that possibility. If I need either of you again, I shall summon you. For your good service, my thanks." One gloved hand rose in dismissal.
At such brusqueness, Conan's first urge was to fling his reward money into the
pool at Mishrak's feet. Raihna's hand on his arm arrested the gesture, giving wisdom the time to prevail.
Why offend Mishrak, if he was in truth going to seek justice for Khadjar, rather than merely drag him to the executioner? Nor was there much Conan could do about it, if Mishrak was determined otherwise.
Others might have use for Mishrak's gold, even if the Cimmerian did not care to let the blood-price for Yakoub soil his fingers. Dessa, Bora and his family, the Hyrkanians who had guarded so faithfully and so carefully―he could find ways for every last brass of Mishrak's money if he wished.
Conan thrust the heavy bag into his belt pouch and held out his arm to Raihna.
"Shall we take our leave, my lady?"
"With the greatest of pleasure, Captain Conan."
They did not ask Mishrak's leave to go, but his guards made no obstacle to their leaving. Conan still did not feel his back safe until they had left not only Mishrak's house but the Saddlemaker's Quarter itself behind them.
Raihna drank from the same well she'd used as she led Conan toward Mishrak's house, what seemed months ago. Then she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and smiled for the first time since they reached Aghrapur.
"Conan, did I once hear you say you preferred to embrace me unclothed?"
The Cimmerian laughed. "When there's a bed ready to hand, yes."
"Then let us spend some of Mishrak's gold on that bed!"
They spent all of two nights and much of the day between in that bed, and little
of that time sleeping. It was still no great surprise to Conan when he awoke at dawn after the second night, to find the bed empty.
It was some days before Conan had time to think of Raihna or indeed any woman.
There was gold to be sent to Bora, Dessa, Pyla, Rhafi, and a half-score of others. There was a new sword to be ordered. There was a good deal of laziness to be purged from his company, although the sergeants had done their best.
When all this was in train, he had time to wonder where Raihna might have gone.
He also had time to consider what might have become of High Captain Khadjar. In the time Conan had known the man, Khadjar never let more than three days pass without a visit to his men. Now it was close to six days. Was there a way to ask, without betraying the secrets of his journey into the mountains?
Conan had found no answer by the morning of the eighth day. He was at the head of his company as they returned from an all-night ride, when a caravan trotted past. Through the dust, Conan saw a familiar face under a headdress, bringing up the rear of the caravan.
"Raihna!"
"Conan!" She turned her horse to meet him. Conan slowed his men to a walk, then reined in.
"So you're a caravan guard in truth. Where bound?"
"Aquilonia. I still cannot return home to Bossonia, until there is a price paid in blood or gold. But in Aquilonia, I might earn some of that gold, selling my sword. Also, Illyana's father has kin among the nobility of that realm. Some might feel that Illyana's friend for ten years had some claim on them."
"You'll still need luck."
"Who knows that better than I? If I don't have it, perhaps I can still find a home in Aquilonia. Some widowed merchant must be in need of a wife."
"You? A merchant's wife?" Conan tried to keep his laughter within the bounds of manners. "I won't say that's as against nature as Dessa's being faithful, but―"
"I've had ten years on the road with Illyana, and more of them good than bad.
Now―well, I find I want to know where my bones will lie, when it comes time to shed them."
"That's a desire that never troubled me," Conan said. "But the gods know, you deserve it if you want it. A swift and safe journey, and―"
"Oh, Conan!" She slapped her forehead, already caked with road dust. "The sun must have already addled my wits. Have you heard about Houma and Khadjar?"
Conan's horse nearly reared as his grip on the reins tightened. "What―what about them?"
"Houma is no longer one of the Seventeen Attendants. He has resigned because of ill-health and given large donations to the temples."
"Large enough that he'll have to sell some of his estates, I'd wager."
"I don't know. I only heard what the criers said in the streets this morning.
But it would surely make sense, to cut the sinews of Houma's son as well as Houma."
Conan thought that Houma's son would need cutting in other and more vital places before he was worth anything. But his company was almost past, and he had yet to hear about Khadjar.
Raihna read the question in his eyes. "This I only heard in the soldiers'
taverns, but all were saying the same thing. Khadjar has been promoted to Great Captain of Horse and goes to Aquilonia, to see how they fight upon the Pictish frontier. Some of the soldiers were angry, that the Aquilonians or any other northerners can teach the riders of Turan anything."
"I'd not wager either way." Conan also would not wager either way about the truth of the rumor. Khadjar might have been sent to Aquilonia, but would he reach it alive? If he did, would he survive learning how to fight Picts?
Still, it counted for something that Mishrak wanted men to think Khadjar had been honored and sent on a mission of trust. Perhaps Khadjar really had gone to Aquilonia―while Mishrak carefully removed all of his and Houma's allies from power, if not from the world. Perhaps promotion would keep Khadjar loyal hereafter, so that his gifts need not be lost to Turan.
Nothing certain anywhere, but that was no surprise. The world seldom was, at the best of times.
No, one thing was certain.
"Raihna, a bed doesn't feel quite the same without you in it."
"How long do you expect that to last, Cimmerian?"
"Oh, as much as another ten days―"
She aimed a mock-buffet at his head, then bent from her saddle and kissed him with no mockery at all.
"Whatever you seek, may you find it," she said. She put spurs to her mount and whirled away up the road toward her caravan.
Conan sat until Raihna was altogether out of sight. Then he turned his own mount's head the other way and spurred it to a canter. It would never do for the new High Captain of mercenaries to think that Conan the Cimmerian would neglect his men as soon as Khadjar's eye was no longer upon him!
The Bloodstained God
Conan continues his service as a soldier of Turan for a total period of about two years, traveling widely and learning the elements of organized warfare. As usual, trouble is his bedfellow. After one of his more unruly episodes―said to have involved the mistress of the commander of the cavalry division in which he was serving―Conan finds it expedient to desert from the Turanian army. Rumors of treasure send him seeking for loot in the Kezankian Mountains, along the eastern borders of Zamora.
It was dark as the Pit in that stinking alley down which Conan of Cimmeria groped on a quest as blind as the darkness around him. Had there been anyone to witness, they would have seen a tall and enormously powerful man clad in a flowing Zuagir khilat, over that a mail shirt of fine steel mesh, and over that a Zuagir cloak of camel's hair. His mane of black hair and his broad, somber, youthful face, bronzed by the desert sun, were h
idden by the Zuagir kaffia.
A sharp, pain-edged cry smote his ears.
Such cries were not uncommon in the twisting alleys of Arenjun, the City of Thieves, and no cautious or timid man would think of interfering in an affair that was none of his business. But Conan was neither cautious nor timid. His ever-lively curiosity would not let him pass by a cry for help; besides, he was searching for certain men, and the disturbance might be a clue to their whereabouts.
Obeying his quick barbarian instincts, he turned toward a beam of light that lanced the darkness close at hand. An instant later he peered through a crack in the close-drawn shutters of a window in a thick stone wall.
He was looking into a spacious room hung with velvet tapestries and littered with costly rugs and couches. About one of these couches a group of men clustered―six brawny Zamorian bravos and two more who eluded identification. On that couch another man was stretched out, a Kezankian tribesman naked to the waist. Though he was a powerful man, a ruffian as muscular as himself gripped each wrist and ankle. Between the four of them they had him spread-eagled on the couch, unable to move, though the muscles stood out in quivering knots on his limbs and shoulders. His eyes gleamed redly and his broad chest glistened with sweat. As Conan looked, a supple man in a turban of red silk lifted a glowing coal from a smoking brazier with a pair of tongs and poised it over the quivering breast, already scarred from similar torture.
Another man, taller than the one with the red turban, snarled a question Conan could not understand. The Kezankian shook his head violently and spat savagely at the questioner. The red-hot coal dropped full on the hairy breast, wrenching an inhuman bellow from the sufferer. In that instant Conan launched his full weight against the shutters.
The Cimmerian's action was not so impulsive as it looked. For his present purposes he needed a friend among the hillmen of the Kezankian range, a people notoriously hostile to all strangers. And here was a chance to get one. The shutters splintered inward with a crash, and he hit the floor inside feet-first, scimitar in one hand and Zuagir sword-knife in the other. The torturers whirled and yelped in astonishment.
They saw a tall, massive figure clad in the garments of a Zuagir, with a fold of his flowing kaffia drawn about his face. Over his mask his eyes blazed a volcanic blue. For an instant the scene held, frozen, then melted into ferocious action.
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