Forty paces away, Telmesh leapt up on a block of stone and hailed him.
"Ho, travelers! Throw down your weapons, give us your goods, and we shall spare you!" The Shemite's voice rang strongly in the corridor of stone, and he straightened with pride at the sound of it. Conan's response was a harsh bark of laughter.
"We have no riches, dogs. Our mistress seeks medicinal herbs in the desert. We have nothing for you but steel. Come forward if you wish a taste of it."
At this the archers to either side of the gorge surreptitiously set shafts to string and looked to Neb-Khot for the order to loose them.
The Stygian chieftain moved among the eight men on the gorge's floor, speaking to them in low tones.
Neesa struggled up onto the boulder's top beside the barbarian. As she stood, a gust of wind lifted her cowl, exposing her slim legs to the crowd below. A raucous cry of approval swept the bandits.
Telmesh laughed coarsely. "By Ashtoreth, give us a taste of her and you can all go free!"
As Conan turned to admonish Neesa to take cover, the woman's hand darted to her nape in a motion that the barbarian knew all too well.
Her arm snapped forward, sending a throwing dagger streaking down the gorge like a diving hawk. The blade drove into Telmesh's throat just above the collar of his dusty burnoose.
"Taste that!" shouted Neesa as Neb-Khot gave his archers the order to release. Conan swept out an arm, shoving Neesa from the top of the boulder and sending her skidding, cursing, down the far side. An arrow shot through the space where she'd stood, whistling up the gorge. The Cimmerian's sword licked out, clipping a second arrow aside in mid-flight. The eight men on the canyon's floor howled out a wild, discordant war cry and drove forward with blades bared.
Telmesh stood still on his rock, eyes wide with disbelief.
His hands groped for the dagger's hilt and found it just as his legs gave way beneath him.
Neb-Khot watched the Shemite fall and felt his luck running strong within him. The whim that had led him to avoid bargaining with this party had likely saved his life. Surely the gods protected him this day.
Behind the boulder, the Lady Zelandra heard the cries of the attacking bandits as an indistinct and distant murmur. She knelt in the gravel, her entire being focused upon the open box of Emerald Lotus perched in her lap. Inside the mirror-lined casket was a small seashell. She used it to spoon a bit of the deep-green powder into her mouth, pouring it under her tongue. Revulsion at the sharp, bitter taste was swiftly eclipsed by the shudder of raw power through her body. She snapped the box closed, lashed it to her belt, and stood up.
The first bandit up the slope closed on Heng Shih, who lunged from his niche in the rock wall to meet him. The flare-bladed scimitar flashed in the desert sun, driving down to rebound from the bandit's hasty"
block with a resounding metallic clang. T'Cura reeled back from the strength of the blow, his dark face twisting with determination, He moved back in, but this time Heng Shih's swing had all the power of the Khitan's body behind it. Again, T'Cura succeeded in blocking the stroke, but the sheer impact lifted him from his feet and hurled him backward down the gorge. The Darfari crashed to the ground, tumbling down the rocky incline in a series of painful somersaults. Heng Shih ducked back into his sheltering niche as an arrow splintered against the canyon wall beside him.
Another arrow shot past Conan's head as he dropped to a crouch, waiting for the oncoming bandits to climb the boulder to reach him. A moment later a bearded brigand pulled himself up to where the rock adjoined the wall of the gorge. Conan drove forward and met an arrow fired by a canny archer below. The point impacted the barbarian's left shoulder, failing to pierce his mail but delivering a powerful buffet that staggered him and sent pain flaring hotly down his arm. The climbing bandit came sword-first onto the boulder's top, where Conan, struck off balance by the arrow, lashed out at him with a wordless cry of rage.
The Cimmerian's blade tore across the breast of his foe, splitting his ribs and slamming him back over the boulder's lip. The brigand fell from sight with a hoarse cry as Conan's uncontrolled swing drove his sword against the gorge wall, where it broke with a brittle crack.
Cursing sulphurously, he tore his dagger from his belt, crouching low again as yet another arrow whispered past.
In the cover of his niche, Heng Shih gripped his hilt with both hands and prepared to go back out onto the slope to deal with the next set of attackers to struggle up the slope. His slanted eyes flew wide as the Lady Zelandra came from behind the sheltering boulder and strode boldly out in front of it. He hurtled from the niche, golden kimono billowing out behind him, to protect his mistress. He cut down a howling brigand with a single brutal stroke, sending the man flying back among his comrades and momentarily arresting their progress. Then the Khitan looked to Zelandra and froze in place.
The Lady Zelandra's hair blew back from her straining face. Her eyes stretched wide, lit up from within by a weird crimson light. A tortured stream of strange words poured from her lips as she flung her arms out as though to embrace the oncoming bandits.
Every man in the gorge stopped moving. They stared in horror at the sorceress as a fiery illumination gathered and seethed about her outstretched hands. Halfway down the slope, T'Cura turned to run.
"Heeyah Vramgoth Dew!" screamed Zelandra, her voice rising to a wail of supernatural intensity. "Aie Vramgoth Cthugua!"
A towering sheet of red-orange flame rose Up before her, filling the gorge from wall to wall, obscuring Zelandra and her comrades from the bandits. For an instant it stood still, raging like the blaze at the heart of a volcano; then it rolled down the canyon toward Neb-Khot's terror-stricken band. Men turned to flee and were caught in the roaring inferno like insects in a brush fire. Screams of fearful agony were half heard above the flame-wall's thunder.
Neb-Khot was astride his horse the moment that Zelandra began her chant. He tried to spur away, but his horse shied, its hooves slipping on the loose stone of the gorge's floor. The beast fell, sending the Stygian chieftain flying from its back to slide gracelessly down the slope. He dragged himself to his feet, twisting an ankle in the gravel, and ran as if hell were at his heels.
Conan stood on the boulder's crest, watching the flame-wall move away.
It rolled swiftly toward the mouth of the gorge, expanding and contracting to fill the defile. When it reached the end of the little canyon, it faded swiftly from view. The fearsome, ear-filling roar dwindled away to silence. The barbarian saw that three bandits had escaped the gorge and now rode intently away from the butte. Two of the men shared a single mount. None turned to look behind them.
Six brigands lay dead on the floor of the canyon. Their bodies were twisted and contorted as though they had died in terrible pain. There was not a mark upon any of them.
Conan clenched his jaw, feeling the barbarian's instinctive fear of the supernatural welling up in him even as his battle-hardened sensibilities rebelled at the cruel power of Zelandra's sorcery. He glanced down to where the sorceress had stood at the base of the boulder and saw that she now sat cross-legged in the dust, her head in her hands. As he looked on, Heng Shih approached Zelandra and knelt at her side, bending his head to hers.
The Cimmerian lowered himself to the boulder's edge and dropped over it, landing lightly beside the sprawled corpse of the brigand he had broken his sword in slaying. The man still clutched a scimitar. Conan took the weapon from his stiffening fingers and the leather scabbard from his bloody belt. The scimitar was of mediocre workmanship, yet its design was agreeable enough. The blade was curved, but not so much as to make it impractical for thrusting. It was not a broadsword, but it would have to serve.
When he turned, Zelandra was standing again, embraced by Neesa. Heng Shih approached him with a wide grin, his silken kimono bright and incongruously festive in the sun. The Khitan's hands went through a quick sequence of motions, ending by seizing Conan by the upper arms and giving him a vigorous shake. The Cimmerian pulled fre
e of the smiling Knit an.
"He gives you thanks for saving our lives," said Neesa. The Cimmerian grunted in embarrassment, looking off down the gorge. Heng Shih slapped him on the shoulder and turned back to Zelandra, who stood leaning weakly against the boulder. Her posture spoke of enormous weariness.
The Khitan took her hand, and together they walked around the boulder to where the camels waited.
Neesa came to the barbarian where he stood affixing the looted sword and scabbard to his belt.
"I shouldn't have killed that man, should I?" she said. Her dark eyes sought his. "If you had time to bargain, perhaps
"Hell," grinned Conan, suddenly glad to be alive. "They had no intention of letting us go. You heard those dogs howl when they caught a glimpse of you. You don't think that I'd have traded you for safe passage, do you?"
"No," she said, and lifted her lips to his.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The riders allowed their horses, weary and lathered with foam, to stop and rest at the Caravan Road. Neb-Khot lowered himself awkwardly from the mount he shared with T'Cura, lit upon his twisted ankle and swore savagely.
"Yog and Erlik! That was a close thing, brothers."
T'Cura eased off his horse and stood holding the reins while the third survivor remained mounted. The third was one of the archers, his bow now in place over his right shoulder. He was a young Shemite, his shock of black hair in sharp contrast to the pale flesh of his face.
"Telmesh was right," he panted, wiping his brow with a dirty sleeve.
"They weren't human. Did you see the black-haired one knock my shaft from the air?"
"Be still, Nath," groaned Neb-Khot. He gave in to the pain in his ankle and sat down heavily on the hot, hard-packed earth of the Caravan Road.
The sun, just past its median, blazed down. It was still early afternoon. The Stygian chieftain marveled that the illfated pursuit of the travelers and the destruction of his band had taken so little time.
"I need a horse," he declared to no one in particular.
T'Cura was drinking noisily from a waterskin, still gripping the reins of his mount with one hand. He lowered the skin and studied his chieftain in a bemused fashion. The archer, Nath, shifted nervously in his saddle, looking back out across the shimmering expanse of the desert.
"The horses scattered, Neb-Khot," said Nath. "We'll never find one for you now."
"It's a long way to Sibu's oasis. And farther still to Bel-Phar,"
growled T'Cura.
"Ishtar." Neb-Khot rubbed his wounded ankle gingerly. "Give some of that water to your horse, T'Cura. The beast will need it to carry us both back to Sibu's."
The Darfari said nothing. He put the waterskin to his lips and took a long, deliberate pull. Lowering it, he looked upon Neb-Khot and bared his filed teeth in a cold and mirthless smile. Then he shoved the waterskin into a saddlebag with a single contemptuous motion.
Nath's gaze moved from T'Cura to his chieftain and back again, growing ever more apprehensive. Neb-Khot noticed none of this. His fingers probed his wounded ankle while his mind dwelt on this sudden reversal of fortune. He looked up to see that the Darfari had remounted his horse and was now stroking the polished blade of his unsheathed scimitar. For the first time it occurred to Neb-Khot that his luck might have deserted him completely.
"Look!" cried Nath, his voice breaking. "A rider!"
Neb-Khot twisted around, coming to his knees on the hard road. It was true. A single horseman had come into view on the road along the far flank of the ridge. His form rippled liquidly in the haze of heat, a small black mark on the ruddy, sun-blasted landscape; but it was clear that he rode the Caravan Road alone.
"Hah," grinned Neb-Khot, getting to his feet. "The gods haven't forgotten me after all. T'Cura, bring me that fool's horse and I'll give you fifty pieces of gold."
The Darfari eyed his leader with a look of amused disbelief writ upon his dark features. Then he shook his head and spat in the dust.
"Julian must love you, Neb-Khot," he said, and spurred his horse forward, toward the approaching horseman.
The Stygian chieftain laid a hand on the lathered neck of Nath's mount as they watched T'Cura rapidly close on the lone rider.
"Should I began the archer.
"No," said Neb-Khot firmly. "Stay here with me and make ready an arrow." Nath did as he was told, setting a shaft to string.
As they watched, T'Cura confronted the horseman, flourishing his sword threateningly in the brilliant sunlight. The traveler's mount seemed very weary, its head hanging, but it kept plodding toward them even as T'Cura accosted its rider. The Darfari's voice rang commandingly, the words indistinct and distant but unmistakable in intent. The horseman, wrapped in a voluminous caftan, did nothing, and his mount continued unperturbed in its slow, steady gait.
Neb-Khot licked dry lips. Was the man mad?
With a furious cry, T'Cura thrust his blade at the traveler's breast.
What happened next occurred with such speed that neither Nath nor Neb-Khot could immediately grasp it. The rider's left hand lashed out, literally slapping aside T'Cura's killing thrust, and then shot out to seize the Darfari by the throat. T'Cura's blade fell to the road and his horse shied away, pulling from beneath its rider and leaving him dangling at the end of an arm as rigid as the bar of a gallows.
"Mitra save us," gasped Nath.
Impossibly, the rider held T'Cura out at arm's length, kicking, and then gave him a powerful shake. The Darfari's thrashing limbs went abruptly lax, and he was released. He fell in a limp heap on the road as the horseman continued toward Neb-Khot and Nath at the same deliberate pace.
"Oh, Mitra! Mitra!" cried Nath hysterically.
"Be still!" shouted Neb-Khot, slapping the mounted man's leg. "Shoot the dog! Loose, damn it!"
The archer shook with fear, but drew and released with ease born of years' practice. The arrow flew true, slapping into the center of the rider's breast. The man lurched in his saddle with the impact, but stayed mounted. His horse maintained its leisurely gait.
"Excellent," said Neb-Khot. "Now again!"
Nath mechanically drew and loosed another arrow, which found its mark beside the first. The rider was jolted once again, but remained in the saddle as the horse came to within a dozen paces and slowed to a halt.
"Gods," breathed Neb-Khot, "what manner of man have we slain?"
Putting his bow back over a shoulder, Nath drew his scimitar and spurred forward, cautiously approaching the horseman.
Seen up close, the horse was in terrible condition. White foam dripped from slack jaws while its sides heaved in the last extremity of exhaustion. Spurs had torn bloody marks in its flanks and its legs quivered unsteadily beneath the weight of its rider. The man's appearance was obscured by his dust-caked caftan, which was nailed to his broad chest by Nath's arrows. He sat his mount with the breathless silence of the dead.
Nath's horse snorted suddenly, but the Shemite jerked at the reins, pulling it up beside the lifeless rider. The archer poked at the horseman with the point of his scimitar, thinking to shove him from the saddle.
The dead man's hand knocked aside Nath's blade and swung back around in an arc of incredible speed. A fist like the head of a mace cracked into the side of Nath's skull, bowling him off of his horse and sending him sprawling unconscious in the dust.
The horseman swung a leg over his saddle and dismounted. Neb-Khot drew his sword without thinking. Then he was struck motionless, his limbs seeming to lock up in helpless horror. The rider had caught the reins of Nath's horse with one hand and was drawing one of the arrows out of his chest with the other. The shaft came out slowly and with a thick, grating rasp, as though it were being pulled from a wooden beam afflicted with dry rot. Bloodlessly, the arrow was removed and discarded. When the rider grasped at the second arrow, Neb-Khot's reason broke.
"Die, demon!" The Stygian chieftain stumbled forward, bringing his sword down in an overhand cut that should have cleft the crown of the
rider's head. But his twisted ankle gave way beneath his weight even as the horseman sidestepped the attack. Neb-Khot fell awkwardly on the road, gravel scoring his palms as he caught himself.
There was no time to recover, to strike upward at his nemesis, or even to roll away. A knee came down solidly in the middle of Neb-Khot's back. A cold hand locked onto each shoulder, iron fingers sinking into his flesh. Struggling, the Stygian was bent backwards with monstrous, irresistible strength.
Gulbanda spoke a single word, then snapped Neb-Khot's spine.
Chapter Twenty-Four
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Zelandra's band of travelers traversed the waste beneath a molten sun.
Conan led them unerringly across the desert's level floor, over red earth baked by centuries of ceaseless heat until it was the consistency of brick. As the long miles passed, the stony solidity of the soil gave way to crumbling gravel, and then to shifting sand.
The party crested a low rise, and drew to a halt at the Cimmerian's command. Ahead stretched an ocean of rolling dunes, a seemingly endless expanse of ochre sand that reached for the shimmering horizon, raked by the sunlight of late morning and dappled by black shadow. A single band of cloud, burnt transparent by the sun, moved upon the blank blue slate of the sky. "Here the true desert begins," said the barbarian. "Any sane caravan would traverse the dune sea only at night, but we are in haste and have no time for comforts. Drink sparingly. I doubt I'll be able to find another source of water until we've crossed the dunes and reached the highlands."
Zelandra bent in her saddle, digging a hand into her baggage. The sorceress produced a worn tube of pale leather, from which she drew a roll of yellowed parchment. Thrusting the tube beneath an arm, Zelandra unrolled the scroll for Conan to see.
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