Prologue

An eerie silence shrouded the dim chamber, like thick fog on a dark, moonless night. Flickering candles illuminated a large ebon altar, which dominated the room. On the floor before the altar, a woman knelt.

Her pale, alabaster skin contrasted sharply with her coal-black hair and deep crimson robes. Her eyes glowed red like hot embers in a brazier, but the pupils were as black and shiny as a serpent’s. She cast back her hood with thin, black-nailed fingers, revealing a visage that was compelling, yet evil beyond comprehension. It was the face of a woman with exotic beauty, immense power, and cold-blooded resolve.

The sinister altar was covered with unspeakable stains, thickest at the flat, circular top and thinner near the base. One stain glistened wetly in the dim light; from it, thin rivulets had run down the sides of the altar to form fresh pools on the floor. The chamber reeked of death.

A large bronze door rasped open into the room. Beyond the door was a dark hallway fitted with deep, plush carpet. The candlelight revealed a tall, thin man standing in the doorway. He was hairless but for a wispy, almost imperceptible white beard. Wrinkles criss-crossed his pale skin. In his left hand was a ring of keys; his right hand still grasped the intricately carved wooden door handle. He let go of the handle, knelt in the doorway, and lowered his head.

He spoke in a high-pitched, lilting voice that was silkier than his flowing, pale blue robes.

“Azora, most Revered Priestess, I have come in answer to your summons.”

She rose slowly from the floor and turned toward the doorway. Her eyes flickered with ill-concealed contempt as they took him in.

“Ah, Lamici. It will not be long before the final rites are complete.

You will be well rewarded, eunuch.”

The last was emphasized, as if to remind him of his station. Azora’s voice was rich and deep. It filled the room and echoed faintly. She gestured toward the top of the altar by tilting her head.

“You may dispose of this carrion.”

“At once, Priestess.”

He retreated briefly into the hallway and emerged bearing a large leather sack. Hesitating, he viewed the scene at the altar with an expression of evident distaste. Azora watched him with amusement. Weak, cowardly fool, she thought. As if he could sense this, he moved purposefully to the altar and reached up.

Hanging from the ceiling was the naked body of a once-beautiful young woman. Rusted iron manacles were clamped cruelly around both her ankles and suspended from heavy chains attached to huge metal rings set in the ceiling. Her long, golden-blonde hair hung down, almost touching the top of the blood-smeared altar. Jewelled silver bracelets gleamed on each of her slender wrists, and a bright silver chain hung from her neck. The body was unmarked, in spite of the wet puddles on the chamber floor. Her skin was a ghastly, bloodless white, and her eyes and mouth gaped unnaturally wide in an expression of extreme terror.

Lamici slid his sack around the lifeless form, carefully avoiding contact with any of the red blotches. He pulled the drawstrings tight just below the slender ankles. Gripping one ankle firmly and using his key, he unlocked the manacles. With a surprising show of strength, he slung the sack over his shoulder and lugged it out into the hallway. He paused briefly, carefully shutting the stout bronze door behind him.

Azora turned back to the altar and closed her eyes. With hands extended toward the altar, she began a slow, rhythmic chant. As her lips formed sounds and words in a language that had been old when Atlantis sank, the candles in the room flared up with scarlet fire. The blood streamed toward her in ribbons, and her outstretched hands absorbed the crimson flow. The chant ended abruptly when there was no more blood; the candles subsided to their normal flickering yellow glow.

Opening her eyes, she stepped back from the altar. She could feel the energy coursing through her whole body; no human could match her accelerated thoughts and reflexes. Soon she would have enough energy to invoke the ancient spells. With the waxing of the next moon, she would complete the final ritual to that end. Since her adolescence, she had studied primeval tomes written by high priests of the Thurian serpent-people. These grimoires, long believed lost or destroyed, told of potent sorcery that would prolong life and give complete dominion over mortal men and women.

Azora hungered for power—for enough power to control even the most exalted of the world’s kings. Before long, all the mighty would cower at her feet like whipped dogs. It was her destiny to be as the great Thurian priestesses of old. For she was Mutare: more than human. She smiled wickedly, revealing horrific rows of twisted, razor-sharp black teeth.

I

The Pommel

The walled city of Pirogia teemed with the usual sights and sounds of local Brythunian night-life. Fair-skinned, blond-haired Brythunians, at work and play, jammed the streets and plazas. Scattered groups of laughing Kezankian hillmen staggered in and out of the many taverns along the winding ways. The stern-faced city guards regarded these drunkards as a nuisance but gave them a wide berth. Their king, Eldran, was descended of Kezankian stock and would not take kindly to reports of city guards roughing up his countrymen.

Beyond the maze of cobblestone streets were poorly lit, stinking alleys, strewn with refuse. Beggars and drunks shuffled along these dark, noisome, rat-infested avenues, mumbling to themselves in hoarse voices. Later, the cheap sour wine they swilled would take its toll, and they would pass out in the same alleys for the night. Some would never awaken, but to give the city guard its due, even the sleazy alleys of Pirogia were safer than the best in many large cities. A prudent man, however, would keep one hand on his sword-hilt and the other on his purse before venturing into one alone.

Into one such alley, at the end of a curiously deserted street, strolled a short, dark-skinned man. His shoulder-length hair was jet black, and his eyes were even blacker. His cruel, narrow face was sporting a smile. He moved with catlike agility through the alley, blending in with the darkness. Stepping nimbly over the prone form of a snoring beggar, he stopped at a heavy oak door in the wall of a tall brick building. A huge, two-handed iron sword had been driven between the bricks directly above the door, so that only the hilt protruded.

Smoothly drawing out his dagger, he rapped sharply on the door. A muffled voice issued from within, cursing in broken Brythunian. “Filthy beggar! Get your reeking, maggot-covered hands off my door. You’ll have no wine from me until you show me the colour of your coin!”

Answering with a deep, amused voice, the dark-eyed stranger spoke in clear Zamoran. “Immanus, you old dog! ‘Tis me, Hassem. Get your bulk over to this door and open it at once!”

The heavy bolt clanked as Immanus drew back the portal, swinging it inward. Hassem peered within while sheathing his dagger. He made this motion easily, without looking down. He had obviously made it countless times before.

The tavern, known as the Pommel, was scarcely better lit than the alley. Dense, oily smoke rose from a few sparse lamps set in the corners of the room, cloaking the inn’s already-dim environs. Heavily stained wooden tables and benches were scattered throughout. At the far end of the chamber was the bar, flanked by an old brick staircase leading upward.

Seated at the tables was a rogues’ gallery of clientèle. In one corner sat a well-known Nemedian slave-trader, toasting noisily to his henchmen with a huge earthen tankard. Thick brown ale spilled down the front of his already-stained tunic. He ignored it, roaring loudly to the barkeep for more.

Next to him sat two shifty-eyed Kothians, speaking of plots and schemes in whispers while sipping quietly from their goblets of wine. In the centre of the room, a band of Kezankian outlaws groped their harlots and sang a bawdy song. A few tables away sat a scantily clad, sultry Brythunian wench. She giggled at something her young, blond-haired companion whispered to her. He was well dressed, perhaps the son of some noble, slumming for the night with his willing courtesan. He ran his hand along her bare hip and bent to whisper again into her ear.

Next to the door towered the deeply tanned giant, Immanus. He was clad in a brown leather vest and pantaloons. A huge gold hoop dangled from one ear, and the dim light reflected off his shiny bald head. His barrel chest was a mass of old scars. A three-foot-long scimitar hung from his thick, black leather belt. He beckoned Hassem to come inside, then effortlessly closed the heavy door with one huge hand. He was a mountain of muscle; his only visible soft spot was his large, round belly. Immanus turned to face Hassem, bending down and speaking quietly into the Zamoran’s ear.

“Were you followed, Hassem?”

“If I had been, my dagger would now require cleaning,” he responded in a slightly injured tone. Immanus ignored this and thumped his thick-skinned bald pate with a meaty index finger.

“This is my old friend, Hassem. As long as I pay heed to him, he will stay with me. If I ignore him…” Immanus made a cutting gesture across his throat and chuckled at his dark jest.

The scowling Hassem saw little humour in it. He began fingering a small, securely wrapped bundle tucked into his belt. “Is the barbarian here? I arranged the meeting last night, but the weak-minded savage’s wits were so addled with wine, I doubted he would recall our rendezvous.”

“Be not so quick to judge him. Barbarian he may be, but I have seen Cimmerians before. They are a hardy and cunning folk, with strange ways, not to be trifled with. Many fools have met death after challenging me, but I would not be so certain of the outcome if I were pitted against a Cimmerian.”

Immanus stared intently at Hassem, as if waiting to be rebuked. After a moment, he laughed and slapped the Zamoran on the back with a force that would have knocked a lesser man to his knees. Hassem slipped him a small pouch that clinked faintly as the enormous Immanus stuffed it into his vest.

“You’ll find him upstairs. He has just finished his first flagon of wine and is doing well at dice tonight, although I feel his luck is about to change.”

Hassem dodged his way through the revellers, pausing at the bar to procure a goblet of cheap wine. He wet his lips with a pungent swig, swilled it around in his mouth, and spat it out on the stone floor.

Filthy stuff, he thought. These goat-herding Brythunians could learn a lesson or two about wine-making. At least he would be leaving this pigsty of a city tonight, to return to Zamora. The last of his goods would be sold to the barbarian. He was in such a hurry to divest himself of this particular item that he had haggled over the price only for the pretence.

Setting the goblet down, he reached into his belt and felt of the smooth metal of the jewelled silver bracelet that rested there. The reward for leading the city guard to its whereabouts would be a hundredfold greater than the price he had settled on with the slack-witted barbarian. However cunning the Cimmerian was, he could surely not avoid the sweep of the headsman’s ax. Hassem lifted his goblet again and smiled at the thought. He stood up and began ascending the stairs.

The Pommel’s upper floor was somewhat better lit than its lower floor, albeit smaller. Furnished only with a few rough-hewn wooden tables and benches, most of the floor was taken up by a large dicing table.

Gamblers crowded elbow to elbow. Loud yelling punctuated every roll of the dice, followed by the groans of losers or the shouts of winners.

The babble of conversation and swearing, in a variety of languages, gave the room a unique feeling, one more like a bazaar than a tavern.

As Hassem reached the top of the stairs, a particularly tall and muscular gambler moved away from the dice table, a jumble of coins clutched in one huge fist. He strode over to a nearby table and jammed the coins into a pouch at his belt. His square-cut black mane framed a bronzed face that was at once youthful and experienced. Even in the low lighting, his bright eyes were clearly visible, as if they burned with blue fire. Brawny arms, thick with corded muscle, were covered with dozens of long, thin scars. A black leather vest did little to hide the swell of his powerful chest. He wore a broad belt and dark blue breeches, and travel-worn but sturdy sandals. Hanging from the belt was a massive broadsword, its sharp, silvery-blue blade bared and gleaming in the lamplight. His bearing was that of a warrior, seemingly out of place among the wastrels in the tavern, like a wolf among rats.

And indeed, Conan of Cimmeria was out of place. Born on a battlefield and raised in the frozen wastes of harsh, northern Cimmeria, he had little experience with the ways of so-called civilized men in their walled cities of wood and stone. His first contact with them had landed him in chains, a slave captured by Hyperboreans. Memory of that captivity, and his escape from it less than a decade ago, still filled him with rage.

The Cimmerian had few qualms about relieving this sort of men of their ill-gotten wealth. He knew from experience that the pickings were ripe in Zamora, and he had decided to return there, crossing through Brythunia. In the Zamoran city of Shadizar, he would obtain the wealth he needed to surround himself with beautiful women and exotic wines.

His needs were simple, he reasoned. He had all the resources he needed to succeed; from his father, a blacksmith, he had inherited an iron-hard, powerful physique. His mind was quick and sharp, his steel broadsword even sharper. With these tools and his knowledge of thieving, he was sure to fatten his purse.

A flagon was set before him by a serving wench. He lifted it, poured wine into his goblet and drank deeply, tossing a silver coin onto the table. He took note of Hassem entering the room and watched as the Zamoran approached. He had already learned much from this weasel, he mused. He realized that Hassem was not to be trusted, but he realized, too, that he himself had gotten the better of a bargain that the two had struck. He would have paid thrice the asking price.

When Hassem had first shown him the jewelled bracelet, Conan had been fairly sure that it was stolen. He cared little about whom it had been stolen from. It would make the perfect parting gift for Yvanna, the Brythunian wench he had been staying with during his sojourn in Pirogia. The dice had been good to him tonight, and he could pay for the bauble without emptying his purse. She was a lusty wench, and the thought of her lush, curvaceous body and fresh-scented blonde hair, combined with the wine he had drunk, had aroused his amorous appetites.

Tomorrow, after one more night of pleasuring, he would give her the bracelet and move on to Shadizar.

Hassem sat down across the table from Conan and pulled the carefully wrapped bundle from his belt. Stroking his wispy moustache nervously, he eyed the bronze-skinned giant.

“Well met, Conan. How is your luck at gaming tonight?”

“Fair, Hassem.” Conan gestured toward the crowded dicing table. “Better than many of these others.” He spoke Zamoran with a rough accent. He had learned the language just recently, but was nonetheless fluent in it.

“Then payment will not present a problem. Forty silver nobles, or two gold crowns, as agreed.”

“Agreed, Hassem. But first I will see the goods again.”

Shielding the view of the bundle with his hand, Conan partially withdrew the wrapping and examined the bracelet carefully to make sure the thieving Zamoran had not substituted a worthless fake. He scratched at a few of the small jewels with his thumbnail to make certain they were not paste.

Hassem was a little indignant at Conan’s inspection. “It is genuine, I assure you. My reputation would suffer if I made a practice of swindling. Besides, a warrior of your stature would no doubt make short work of me. Hassem has no wish to be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life.”

“You would sell your mother to Nemedian slavers if the price was right.

I know of the ways of Zamoran thieves. Here is your payment.”

Hassem was angry at the barbarian’s rebuke. To be spoken to in such a manner by a savage! You will have your payment tonight, too, northern dog, he thought. He reached out and took the gold coins offered him.

Bowing mockingly, he stood up and crossed over to the dicing table, leaving Conan to finish his flagon of wine.

Smiling at the thought of Yvanna, Conan stuffed the bundle into the inner pocket of his leather vest. Where in Crom’s name was the girl?

She was supposed to meet him here a few hours after sunset, when she finished her last dance at the Inn of the Golden Lion. He emptied his goblet quickly and poured himself another. He was too preoccupied to notice that Hassem had already left the room.

Nearly half an hour later, he emptied the last of the flagon into his goblet. He was not drunk, but the wine was definitely having an effect on him. Yvanna had not shown up, and his patience was wearing thin.

Perhaps he would dice some more before giving up on the wench. As he mulled this thought over, he heard a loud commotion from the lower floor. There was an ear-splitting crash, followed by a familiar ringing sound that could only be the drawing of swords. His head cleared somewhat as his keen instincts immediately alerted him to possible danger. He dropped one hand to the hilt of his sword. The other patrons, who were much more inebriated than he, ignored the disturbance. Apparently, brawls and outbreaks of fighting were commonplace in the Pommel as the night wore on. Conan relaxed a little but remained wary.

Moments later, he heard the unmistakable sound of booted feet pounding up the stairs. He recognized a patrol of the city guard, led by an officer of some sort. The man was different from many of the soft, city-bred weaklings that Conan had seen in most positions of authority or rank. His chiselled face was accentuated by pitch-black, short-cropped hair and a neatly groomed beard and moustache. Obviously not a Brythunian, he was nearly as tall as Conan himself, with even broader shoulders and a thick, solid-looking torso. He wore a chain mail shirt and gripped a curved sword in his right hand. His dark brown eyes scanned the premises, evidently looking for someone who was wanted very badly by the guard.

The room was immediately pitched into chaos, as more than half of the patrons doubtlessly believed they were about to be arrested. Some made feeble attempts to hide their features; others nervously eyed the large, dirt-encrusted window on the wall facing the alley. A few crouched under a table in one corner, desperate to escape from the sight of this black-bearded giant.

A loud bellow of annoyance was heard from below. The bald-headed Immanus came charging up the stairs, shoving aside three of the guards like straws in the wind. He stood nose to nose with the mailed officer, one hand on the hilt of his scimitar, the other balled tightly into a mallet-like fist. His swarthy face was red, either from the exertion of running up the stairs or from anger at the guards’ sudden intrusion.

“What is the meaning of this, Salvorus? We have paid our dues to avoid trouble with the guard. You, a captain, should know better than to risk the anger of your superior.”

“If you have bribed the general, then I am sure he would not have told me, Immanus. In any case, I owe you no favours. I have no interest in this open sewer you mistakenly call a tavern, or in any of the offal floating in it. Least of all, in you. I am here on the king’s business, looking for only one man. Stand aside, unless you are fool enough to take on me and my patrol. What say you?”

Snarling, Immanus unclenched his fist and jabbed a beefy finger into Salvorus’s mailed chest. “You dare to insult me? The Pommel is a long way from the king’s palace, and accidents are common in these back alleys. Leave at once, or by Ishtar, the only service you’ll be doing for your king is to fatten his alley rats with your rotting corpse!”

Salvorus’s expression turned hard. Cautiously but forcefully, he lunged with speed amazing for one so large. His burly left arm shot out and he wrapped his hand around Immanus’s throat, shoving him against the wall.

Choking under the pressure, Immanus shoved Salvorus back with both hands, then quickly drew his scimitar. Its curved blade gleamed wickedly in the light cast by the dimly burning lamps. The room fell silent. All eyes and ears attended the two men poised on the verge of what was, to the observers, an uncertain battle. Patrons at the dicing table made a few quiet bets on the outcome.

Moving back a little, Salvorus raised his blade and beat the scimitar with a ringing crash, striking blue sparks. Immanus parried and thrust, but his heavy blade slid off his opponent’s chain mail. Before Immanus could recover, Salvorus darted forward, slashing downward. The scimitar clattered to the floor next to several of Immanus’s severed fingers.

Salvorus turned and lashed out with his left fist, striking Immanus square in the jaw. The sickening crunch of his jawbone shattering almost drowned out his cry of pain. Immanus slumped to the floor, clutching his bloody finger stumps. At the dicing table, coins changed hands while the gamblers stared speechless, in awe of the damage Salvorus had wrought.

Conan’s eyes narrowed as he watched the battle. His first impressions were right; this captain was no fop with a title, but an expert fighter. Still, Conan had done nothing wrong, so the captain could not be after him. Perhaps that weasel of a Zamoran, Hassem, had done something to irk the king. Conan looked over to the dicing table, then noticed that he was missing. No doubt the gutless thief had slunk out during the commotion.

Wiping his blade on his fallen opponent’s pantaloons, Salvorus strode purposefully over to where the Cimmerian sat. Conan’s left arm rested on the table; his right arm hovered over his hilt. Still breathing fast from his pitched battle with Immanus, the captain spoke directly to the barbarian.

“You are Conan of Cimmeria?” he asked, as if already certain of the answer.

“I have done nothing. What do you want of me?”

“You will come with me to the palace, where you are wanted for questioning. If you have done nothing, as you say, you will be released.”

“Why am I wanted? I have been in Pirogia for less than a week. I tell you, I am just a traveller, passing through your city. Let me be.”

“My patience is nearly exhausted, Cimmerian. If you will not come quietly, I will take you by force. You saw how Immanus fared. I do not wish to hurt you, only to question you.”

Conan’s temper was beginning to flare. In his homeland, he would have killed this stranger for accusing him thusly without reason. However, he had learned that civilized men were strange in their ways, so he would not attack this man unless further provoked. He had no desire to rot for months, or maybe for years, in some reeking Brythunian dungeon.

“Tell me what I am accused of and I will decide whether or not to go with you.”

“I tire of this game, dog! In your belt, wrapped in cloth, is a bracelet you have stolen. The jewelled bracelet of the king’s daughter, whom you foully murdered last night. What manner of devil are you, barbarian dog, to hew her body so cruelly? Were I allowed, I would see justice meted out on your body now!”

Conan was shocked. He should have known that Hassem’s price was too low. The worthless Zamoran slime had turned him in to the guard, perhaps out of malice, or perhaps to claim a reward. It mattered little now what the reason was. The word of a travelling Cimmerian would not be believed. He had no choice but to disable the captain and flee the city.

Taking advantage of the Cimmerian’s momentary surprise, Salvorus grabbed Conan’s thickly muscled right wrist in a grip like a vise.

Conan grunted and tried to shake him off, but such was Salvorus’s strength that the bone could not withstand the strain and snapped with an ugly popping sound.

Now enraged, Conan lifted his empty wine flagon with his left hand and bludgeoned Salvorus with it. The heavy bottle struck the officer square on the face, breaking his nose. Blood sprayed like a geyser from both of his nostrils, and he let go of his grip on the Cimmerian’s wrist.

Swinging the bottle like a club, Conan struck the officer again on the side of the head. The glass shattered, showering the floor with shards.

Blood poured down the side of Sarvorus’s head from an ugly gash.

Salvorus’s face was a mask of blood and fury. Roaring and cursing, he shook his head to clear it and swung his deadly sword at Conan’s neck.

Ducking the sweep, the Cimmerian rolled off the bench, cutting himself on the broken glass, and drew his broadsword with his good arm. He parried Salvorus’s next cut, leaped to his feet, and hacked brutally at the wounded man’s exposed head. Salvorus’s parry was late, slowed a little by the blows he had received. The flat of Conan’s blade struck him again, full on the head, and he fell to the floor with a heavy thud, senseless.

Conan hurdled over the body and rushed for the stairs. The guards, panicked by the sight of the onrushing juggernaut, practically fell over themselves to clear a path. Conan kicked them out of the way as he bounded down the stairs. The tavern door had been knocked off its hinges, no doubt by Salvorus and his patrol. Dashing past the startled revellers, the Cimmerian burst out into the alley, running almost headlong into Yvanna. Even in his astonishment at meeting her, Conan could not help but run his eyes up and down her voluptuous dancer’s body.

The moonlight of the alley silhouetted Yvanna’s slender waist and full-breasted figure. Lips like red wine were parted in surprise, and hair the colour of sunlit gold cascaded over her slender shoulders. She wore a revealing silken shift that left little to the imagination. At her waist, a sheathed stiletto hung from her thin belt. Another was visible, tucked into one of her high boots.

“Crom! Where have you been, girl? I have waited for hours!”

Yvanna’s eyes went wide as she took in Conan’s dishevelled appearance.

He was spattered with blood from Salvorus’s wounds, and slivers of glass protruded from still-oozing wounds in his arms and face. His sword was stained red; he held it tightly in his left hand. His broken right wrist had begun to swell. An ugly purple bruise was forming, and the hand protruded at an unnatural angle. Where a lesser man would have fallen prone in agony, Conan ignored these injuries.

“Conan… your wrist! What happened to it? Who were you fighting with?”

“I broke it in a scuffle with some fool of a captain who accused me of a foul deed I had nothing to do with. I tried to tell him that it must have been Hassem who slew the king’s daughter and looted her corpse.

But the captain, Salvorus, would not listen to me and tried to take me by force. I must leave this alley at once, before his lackeys summon help. If I read the signs right, the whole city guard will soon be tracking me down like dogs on a hunt!”

“But… your wrist! How will you manage to escape? Let me hide you until it heals. I know of a place that the guards will never search. I will bring a healer to tend to the break. By then, they will not be looking so hard for you, and you can slip out unnoticed.”

He shook his head. “No, my features mark me. Cimmerians are a rare sight in this city, and I would be seen right away. No disguise could change my height and build. I must find that snake, Hassem, beat the truth out of his worthless skin, and bring him to the guard myself.

Otherwise, I will have no peace. Besides, men of my race do not hide from trouble. And I would repay Hassem for this!”

He lifted his injured wrist, his eyes smouldering with fury. After looking up and down the alley, he reached down and yanked the filthy cloak off a beggar who lay slumbering facedown a few feet away from the wide-open tavern doorway. He wrapped the garment around his shoulders, ignoring the stale odour of vomit rising from it.

“This will do for now. We will leave the alley together, like wine-addled lovers on our way to a tryst.”

She sniffed the ragged cloak doubtfully and wrinkled her nose. “At least no one will want to get close to you.”

He put his left arm around her, and the two went down the alley at a rapid pace. They moved carefully through the labyrinth of side streets, winding their way’ toward Pirogia’s west wall, were Yvanna lived. As they walked, Conan reflected on his predicament. He should have suspected that his luck at the dicing table would turn sour. However, he was not one to wallow in self-pity. He simply adapted to the situation, his energy dedicated to working out a solution to the problems that faced him. Apparently his good fortune had not entirely deserted him; no guards accosted them and they returned safely to her lodging.

Yvanna lived in a large, mud-brick building that had a crude but sturdy roof of pitch-smeared wood. The structure had been divided into several sections, which housed other tenants. She made sure that the doorway was clear, then signalled to Conan. They slipped inside unnoticed.

Yvanna’s lodging consisted of two small rooms, with only a few simple wooden furnishings. The place was neatly kept and in good repair.

Yvanna managed to make a good living, dancing at the Inn of the Golden Lion. She enjoyed her work, and was gratified that her patrons always enjoyed it, too. When Conan had shown up several days ago, his gaze had drawn her. He was unlike most of the men she danced for; younger, but so serious, and so naive in some ways. As she had finished her dance, she could tell that her lithe body and suggestive motions had fired his passions. He had watched her quietly and intently, not jeering and laughing like so many of the others did.

Later, she met with him in the common room of the Golden Lion, wanting to know more about this quiet giant. After their first bottle of wine, they decided to spend an evening enjoying the city’s night-life. together. As the night wore on, they ended up at Yvanna’s. She marvelled at his animal vitality and passion. No man had ever attracted or satisfied her as much as this strange Cimmerian did.

Now she picked the shards out of his skin while he related the evening’s events to her. Cleaning the blood from his wounds, she frowned at the nasty lump of swollen, bruised flesh that marked his broken wrist. Unless she brought a healer, he might never regain use of his hand. Again, she was impressed by his stoic attitude toward what must be excruciating pain. Not once had he even winced. Eventually he finished his recounting of the tale and fell silent, keeping his thoughts to himself.

When she was done, he reached for his sword and lay down on the pile of deep furs that served as her bed. He fell into a light doze, with his left hand still resting on his sword’s worn hilt. She was aware of how shallow his sleep was. Moving with a dancer’s quiet grace to avoid awakening him, Yvanna slipped out to find the healer.

II

Brythunian Blood

“Idiot!”

At the palace, in a gaudy and ornate antechamber, a red-faced General Valtresca stood before a downcast Captain Salvorus. The general of the Brythunian army was only a little shorter than Salvorus, but much smaller of build. His beard, moustache, and thinning blond hair were shot through with streaks of grey and white. Although his hair gave him the look of a man in his fifties, his handsome face showed few signs of age.

The general wore a perfectly fitted steel breastplate, embossed with elaborate designs. Covering his upper arms were gussets of steel rings, attached to the breastplate. Fastened to these was a calf-length cape of deep red wool. Expertly crafted mail gauntlets with embossed steel plating fit snugly over his hands and lower arms. Iron-studded boots of thick leather covered his feet and rose to just beneath his knees.

Close-fitting breeches of thick but supple reddish-black leather encased his sinewy legs. Hanging from his hip was a long, thin sword with an elaborately engraved hilt. The scabbard was cunningly inlaid with gold and silver leaf. The general cut an impressive and authoritative figure, and he was all too aware of it. His bearing and manner were at once brusque, condescending, and pompous.

At present, Salvorus did not look nearly as impressive as the general.

His battered face was a mass of bruises and contusions. A gash below his temple, not yet dressed, still gleamed wetly with blood, which matted his black hair. He stood rigidly upright, taking the abuse from the general quietly. However, a sweat-drenched brow belied his cool posture; he was clearly nervous.

Valtresca continued his tirade, so upset that veins stood out on his temples. “Your clumsiness has made the guard a laughingstock in this city! You had the savage in your grip, and you carelessly let him slip through. If you had used your head instead of your sword-arm, the defiler of Eldran’s beloved daughter would now be shackled in the dungeons, listening to the sounds of the headsman’s grinding-wheel as he sharpened his ax. Instead, you return empty-handed, with a pitiful excuse. You had six men with you. Surely no one man could have overpowered all of you. Especially if your claim of breaking his wrist is true. This is too rich! A one-armed barbarian escapes from a half-dozen trained guardsmen led by Salvorus, hero of the border wars!”

Salvorus had been listening to the general’s rebuke for over a quarter of an hour, and his patience was beginning to wear thin. “General, meaning no disrespect, they were hardly trained guardsmen. According to witnesses, the yellow-bellied scum were trampling one another to clear a path for the escaping Cimmerian. I have seen alley rats with more guts than these city guards. They are competent enough to break up a street brawl, and to crack the heads of disorderly drunkards, but they have not the courage or the skill to face a foe such as this Cimmerian.

If I had brought some of my lads, seasoned in battle at the Nemedian border, I assure you that your dungeons would have a new occupant tonight. By Mitra, I have never seen his equal in strength and speed!

According to the serving wench, he had even consumed two flagons of wine. As you have told me, General, a successful commander must never underestimate his foe.”

“A pity you did not consider this before you approached him,” said Valtresca, interrupting. “I trust you will not repeat this mistake.

Salvorus, I was a good friend of your father’s, Mitra protect his soul.

When I heard of your deeds in the border wars, I had you promoted to a position of no little importance, and moved to this city. Now, in your first month at your new post, you already disappoint me. Out of respect for your father, I give you a second chance. Find the barbarian. We can be certain of his guilt; his reaction to your accusations leaves no doubt of it. Go and bring him back, alive or dead. The king will take some consolation that the heathen responsible for this monstrous deed has been brought to justice. Send for your border men, if it will help.

Use whatever means you must to see that he does not escape unpunished.”

“At once, General!” Salvorus saluted, whirled about, and left quickly.

He was relieved to be out of the chamber, out of the reach of Valtresca’s stinging invective. There was truth to the saying that the general’s tongue could wound a man more deeply than his sword.

As the captain made his way through the stone hallways of the palace, he considered this latest turn of events. Just over a month ago, he had successfully crushed an attempted invasion by a Nemedian baron who had wished to lay claim to a large parcel of Brythunian land, flanked by the great fork in the Yellow River. At the time, Salvorus had been only a lieutenant. His captain was killed in the first attack by the Nemedians, leaving him in charge of the border guard of five hundred men. Although outnumbered three to one, Salvorus had held the banks of the river for over a week, until reinforcements had finally arrived. He had slain more than two score Nemedians with his own sword, while taking few wounds himself.

The border men had rallied around him, drawing courage from his deeds.

During the battle, he had been too preoccupied with issues of survival and tactics to consider what would happen to him afterward. Later, when the monarch of Nemedia had made the unlikely claim that he had had nothing to do with the raid, and had sent a caravan laden with gifts of appeasement, Salvorus had become something of a hero. The king had thanked him personally and given a banquet in his honour.

When Valtresca had offered him the coveted position as captain of the city guard, he had readily accepted. Now he was beginning to regret that hasty decision. His strongest abilities, he believed, were in battle, and he had thrived on the dangers and challenges that the border warfare had provided every day. Here in the city, the dangers were of a different sort, the “battles” requiring tactics different from those he was accustomed to. True, the rewards were greater and the risk somewhat lessened, but he was not yet certain that the post suited him. A man with more skill at politics and less at swordplay would probably do better.

However, Salvorus was not ready to give up. Valtresca had gotten his own start in the same border garrison as he, and surely had faced the same difficulties. Salvorus would prove that he was capable. He believed that someday he would replace Valtresca as general of the Brythunian army. To be sure, it was a small army in comparison with those of great kingdoms such as Aquilonia, Ophir, or Shem. However, the title of Brythunian General carried with it a meaning of honour. and tradition dating back for centuries.

Salvorus’s wounds could be tended to later. He had already sent as many patrols as could be summoned to monitor all exits from the city. His lieutenants would presently be assembling in the guardhouse. He had formed a plan to snare the Cimmerian, and he would not rest until it was put into action. Due to his natural fighting ability, strength, and immense size, Salvorus had never before been beaten in hand-to-hand combat. Rubbing gently at the bridge of his blood-encrusted broken nose, he realized that this Conan might prove to be his most challenging conquest.

In the chamber Salvorus had just come from, Valtresca paced, head bent slightly as if he were deep in thought. He rubbed occasionally at his beard. After a while, he stopped pacing and straightened up, then moved to a polished oak table that sat in one corner of the room. Atop the table was a small gong. He picked up a mallet that lay alongside it and struck the gong forcefully.

Minutes later there was a gentle, insistent knock at the door. “‘Tis not locked. Enter!” Valtresca said impatiently.

The door opened quietly, and a fair-skinned, thin-boned old man in blue silk robes stepped in. He bowed slightly, then pulled the door shut behind him. Valtresca spoke to him in a hushed voice. “We may have a problem, Lamici. I gave you strict instructions about disposing of the body. How did the princess’s trinket wind up in the hands of this westerner?”

“I handled the matter with utmost secrecy and caution, I assure you,”

the chief eunuch replied in his soft, singsong voice. “Surely you do not suspect me of despoiling the body.”

“No, but someone did. The necklace and bracelets were given to the princess when she was young, and as she grew, they were too small to be taken off. Such is the custom with women of Brythunian nobility. To remove them, the thief would have had to hack off the hands and the head. No wonder the body was found in such a state! If only I had been in the city yesterday, in time to quiet this matter before the whole guard had been alerted. After the king was told, a reward was even offered for finding or capturing the culprit.”

“I sent word to you immediately when I heard that the body had been discovered by the guard. Surprising that the message reached you so quickly.”

Valtresca cursed. “Not quickly enough. Fortunately, the gullible Salvorus believes the barbarian is responsible. There is only one person who could know otherwise. According to Salvorus, a Zamoran named Hassem told him who had the bracelet, and where it could be found. Like a dog eager to please its master, our loyal captain went to fetch it.

If only he had slain the Cimmerian!”

“Ah, General. I have heard of Hassem. He is a Zamoran fence, a sewer rat, with no scruples. While such men are useful, they cannot be trusted. Has he collected his reward yet for leading the guard to the criminal? As I recall, the price for revealing the rogue’s whereabouts was set at two hundred gold crowns. Surely Hassem will want the gold.

Perhaps you should advise Salvorus to send for him, so that we may pay him…”

“Of course! Leave the matter to me, eunuch. A fence, eh? Hassem will get much more of a reward than he counted on. I would know what evidence he has of this Cimmerian’s guilt.”

“Hmmm… I am willing to wager he knows much more than he told the captain. Perhaps with the proper inducements, he can be made to tell you.”

Valtresca’s face hardened. His eyes shone like cold and soulless sapphires. He smiled cruelly and suggestively flexed his mailed glove.

“If he knows anything, he will tell me. Leave me now. Keep your eyes and ears open for any further news. I must know all that is said to the king.” His voice lowered until it was almost a whisper. “Does Azora know of this?”

The old eunuch’s gaze turned down to the floor. “I have not informed her personally, nor have I spoken to her since… after the ritual two nights ago. As you are aware, she has an uncanny ability to know much that is not said. If it concerned her, she would no doubt have summoned me.”

“We must be certain that she does not summon you over this matter. I fear no man, but hers is a sorcery I would not care to have working against me. I will see to Hassem and discuss the outcome with you later.”

Lamici bowed again, opened the door, and left as quietly as he had entered. Despite his calm outward appearance, the eunuch’s mind was spinning with disturbing thoughts. He did not care to dwell on the fate that lay in store for him should he be linked to the death of the princess. He was upset that the body had been discovered and confused as to how this could have happened. He certainly had not plundered the corpse, but he could not help but believe that Valtresca must suspect some involvement on his part. He had always admired the general, whom he had seen grow from a strong-willed, impetuous youth to an efficient if heavy-handed leader of men. Valtresca represented what he considered the true model of Brythunian nobility. Born of a long line of pure Brythunian blood, and the son of a baron, he should rightfully have been chosen king when the previous monarch had died, leaving no heir.

For more than twenty years, the eunuch had served the former royal family and their king, Khullan. Brythunian blood had run true in Khullan, but not in his successor, “King” Eldran. Lamici resented the presiding monarch, whose blood was a mix of Kezankian, Brythunian, and even a little Hyperborean. Although the hillmen were technically Brythunian, he considered them peasant stock, suitable only for herding goats and tilling fields. He still cursed the day, just over a year ago, when this unworthy peasant had been chosen king.

True, Eldran had served well as soldier and then as leader in the border wars, but his bloodstock was ill-suited for a king. Valtresca’s worst fears about Eldran had proven to be true; the man preferred to negotiate and trade with rival kingdoms, as if his land and its people were goods to be haggled over at a marketplace. He had not the backbone to stand up to his peers, and he hid behind his useless treaties and words like a spineless weakling.

Only a strong man of noble blood could bring together all the people of Brythunia and restore the power inherent to the throne. When Lamici was very young, his grandmother had served the royal family of her time, and she had told him many tales of the wealth and position that had once made Brythunia a mighty nation. Lamici was proud to have been chosen as a royal eunuch; the sacrifice of his manhood was insignificant in comparison with the honour. of serving the royal family.

Over the years, he had watched quietly as the throne began to lose power, eroding slowly but surely, until Brythunia itself was in danger of breaking apart into squabbling factions. As generations passed, the once-proud people of Brythunia were degenerating into barbarism.

Invasions by bordering countries were commonplace, the rulers of rival nations considering the royal house of Brythunia to be a joke, its ruler a “king of oafs.” The words had burned in Lamici’s heart, and he longed to make these rulers regret saying them.

Valtresca was the man who could accomplish this. He was aggressive, and would not tolerate these “accidental” raids across the Brythunia border, made with increasing frequency by its neighbouring kingdoms.

Instead, he would band together the scattered, localized militia and push the borders west across the Yellow River and south into Corinthia.

King Valtresca would begin the new age of the Brythunian Empire, which would ultimately swell to the shores of the great Western Ocean.

Lamici’s heart soared as he visualized this dream; he could see the banners, decorated with the colours of the great nation, flying over the gleaming cities.

The eunuch had pondered for months how to go about the usurping of Eldran. The king was guarded day and night by stout Kezankian hillmen, whose loyalty to him was unbreakable. Such was their fierce devotion that they would consider it an honour. to die for him. Their senses were sharp, their blades even sharper.

To worsen matters, a renegade, power-hungry baron from south-eastern Brythunia had recently hired an assassin to poison Eldran.

Unfortunately, the nobleman’s fool plan had failed, and maddened citizens had burned him alive in his own castle. The would-be poisoner was beheaded, the traditional punishment for capital crimes. Now, with the king’s suspicion aroused, not even the most skilful of assassins could guarantee success, and Lamici could not risk even one failure. If the king were to suspect him, his vision would be ended forever by the keen edge of the executioner’s ax. Fervently, he had prayed to the gods for help.

Three weeks ago, late in the evening, his prayers had finally been answered. While in the city purchasing supplies, he had been approached and greeted by a strange young woman who somehow knew his name. She had simply stepped out of one of the many alleys and introduced herself as Azora. She had been clad in an ankle-length, shapeless brown cloak and had worn thin leather gloves. A hood had been cast over her face, concealing her hair and forehead. At first, he had noticed her entrancing eyes; they had glowered in the evening darkness with dim red light, like rubies in torchlight. When he had blinked and looked again, he had seen that they were just normal brown eyes. She had told him where she was from, but he could not recall the place now. The meeting was like a dream; he remembered little of it, but he thought it had lasted for hours.

For reasons he still could not recall, he had followed her to a deserted, ancient part of the city he had never visited before. There were old structures there, pre-dating the city built around them. Out of superstition, the structures had been declared off limits, and the city guard chased away any vagrants or curious passers-by who wished to take a closer look. On that evening, they had walked past the patrol and into one of the aged, crumbling buildings. The guards had looked right through them as if they were not even there. He had been frightened at the time, but had entered nonetheless.

The building was reminiscent of a temple, but rough, unadorned, and unfurnished. Azora spoke, and at the sound of her voice, a huge block of stone at the far wall swung outward, revealing a winding corridor beyond. The contrast between the corridor’s trappings and the crude stone of the outer room was striking. Deep carpets, red like mats of blood, covered the grey stone floor, and strange-looking torches hung from the walls, burning with smokeless green fire. Lamici had followed her to a bronze double door nearly twice his height, with a heavy lock clasped around its two bizarrely carved wooden handles. At her command, the lock opened and the portals swung inward, as if some invisible giant had pushed them.

A gust of foul air rushed past the doors, flowing over him. His stomach had almost heaved at the odour, which was strong with death and decay.

He had wanted to run, but was no longer in full control of his actions.

Instead, he had followed her into the darkness beyond. She lit several dozen candles, carefully placed in a ring around some large object in the chamber’s centre. When his eyes had adjusted to the dim light, he had seen that the object was some sort of altar and that the odour emanated directly from it. He had squinted at it, trying to make out the strange symbols etched on its surface, but then Azora had turned to face him.

“I know who you are and what you want, eunuch,” she had said in a hauntingly beautiful voice that echoed unnaturally in the strange room.

“Such knowledge is the gift given to a high priestess of the Mutare. I have led you here because you can bring me something that I want. In return for this, I will use my power to assist you in deposing the king and putting another of your choosing in his place.”

“You have such power?” he had asked, then regretted doubting it. “What is it you want of me?”

“The king trusts you, and you have free access to the palace. Further, he has charged you with the duty of educating his daughter. I will give you a salve that, when rubbed on the skin of a woman, will put her fast asleep. You will touch the king’s daughter with this salve. While she sleeps, you will bring her to me.”

“What if I am seen? And why, with your power, can you not—”

“—perform this deed myself?” she had interrupted. “My true countenance cannot be hidden from a human female. The ways of the Mutare are not without some limitations.”

“Your true countenance? What—” He had gasped in shock when she pulled back her hood and cast off the leather gloves. She smiled at him, revealing rows of pitch-black teeth. He had seen that his first glance at her eyes had been right; they did glow red-orange, like hot iron taken from a smith’s forge. Her fingernails were as black as soot, contrasting sharply with her dove-white flesh. He had shuddered, and he remembered having been so terrified that he had nearly lost control of his bladder, like a frightened young whelp.

“Know what I am, eunuch. I must not be seen; the priests of Mitra are age-old enemies of the Mutare, and I have no time for interruptions.

The affairs of this land mean nothing to me; I care not who herds these human sheep. My concerns are for other matters, far beyond your human comprehension. All you must do is bring me the girl, unharmed and unmarked. Long have I waited for this opportunity… a virgin of white skin and golden hair, born of a king in this very city. So was it written; the prophecy is true.

“If you heed my words, you will not be seen, nor will you be suspected of any wrongdoing. Bring her to me. When I am through with her, you may dispose of the body as you see fit. After you have brought her, I will see that the king dies of a wasting disease, which will come from within his body. You need do no more. Nothing will cure him, not even the useless prayers of the dotard, drooling priests of Mitra as they croon foolishly to their weak, indifferent deity. Eldran will die, and the next man to sit upon the throne will be chosen by the people as their new king.”

After the plan had been revealed to him, Lamici had been given two keys. One activated the mechanism that moved the great stone block in the temple, the other fitted the lock that secured the immense bronze double doors leading to Azora’s altar room. He was also given a small jar of salve. When he had left the ancient temple and returned to the palace, the hour had been late and his head had ached terribly. The next morning upon awakening, he was convinced he had dreamed it all. He had then seen the keys and the jar lying on his night table, mute testimony that the priestess had been real. He had hastily hidden them in a hollow space behind a loose brick in the wall of his bedchamber.

Now, weeks later, his part of the bargain was finished. All that remained was for Azora to finish her part. He gazed out a palace window as the great yellow face of the sun rose above the mountains far to the east, its warming rays shining through the sparse, billowing clouds.

Yes, he thought, his old eyes were at last witnessing the dawn of a new era, an era in which Brythunia would reign supreme. Smiling at this thought, he hurried down the corridor toward Eldran’s chambers. Perhaps the king was not feeling well this morning.

III

The Healer and the Hunter

Conan awoke suddenly, alerted by the faint noise of a door closing. He had been sleeping for several hours, but his senses were sharp immediately. After a night like the one he had been through, most civilized men would have woken in a foggy stupor, but the barbarian’s instincts were as keen and fresh as a panther’s.

By reflex, the Cimmerian grasped the hilt of his sword gently but firmly, ready for trouble. He winced slightly when trying to use his right hand; the fingers would not move, and his lower arm ached with a dull, steady throb. His head also ached, but with a more familiar sort of pain, induced by the bottles of wine he had quaffed last night. His mouth was as dry as the Zamoran desert.

He relaxed slightly when he saw that the noise was only that of Yvanna, returning with one who was most likely a healer. The man wore the trappings of a priest of Mitra, but he was younger looking than most priests Conan had seen. His robes were travel-worn but clean, and his feet were clad in heavy sandals, patched many times. Long, reddish-brown hair framed his solemn, light-skinned face; a dense, curling beard and moustache covered his jaw. He gripped a heavy, iron-shod birch staff with his right hand, balancing the large, well-worn leather sack that hung from his left shoulder by heavy straps. He had tied a belt of rope around his waist, but he wore no blade, at least not openly.

Conan rose slowly from the makeshift bed of furs and walked over to the large urn of water that sat in a corner of the chamber. He set his sword against the wall, lifted the urn with one hand and drank deeply.

After setting the vessel back down, he wiped his mouth, stifling a belch.

Yvanna spoke to him in a concerned tone of voice. “Conan, this is Madesus, the healer I told you about last night. He can be trusted not to reveal your whereabouts.”

Conan eyed the man suspiciously, as if he doubted this. “You are a priest, Madesus?” he asked, gesturing toward the man’s garments.

“Once I was, three years ago, at a Temple of Mitra in Corinthia. Now I am simply Madesus, the Healer. I wear these robes by choice and by right, and am still a devout worshipper of the Lord of Light.” He changed the subject suddenly, as if reluctant to explain further. “Your wrist is badly broken; allow me to tend it, and I will be on my way.

Yvanna speaks truly in saying that I will tell no one you are here. As a healer, I was taught to cure the sick, not to question or betray them.” He opened his large sack and began removing various phials, jars, and other objects from it, placing them on a nearby table. He asked Yvanna to bring him water from the urn, then took several candles from his sack and lit them.

Conan scowled, but said nothing more. If the healer was lying, it was too late to do anything about it now. He would have to move on soon anyway, as the guards were probably searching the whole accursed city for him. Healed or not, he would find Hassem and pay the swindling cur for his treachery. The Zamoran would soon be fencing his stolen goods in hell. He looked over toward the table, where Madesus was mixing a noxious-looking liquid. His nose twitched at its pungent odour.

“Please extend your wrist, palm up, mind you.” Madesus applied the salve to the swollen, bruised flesh, then wrapped his hand around the wrist and closed his eyes. “Holy Father, bringer of light, defender of good, hear the prayer of your humble servant…” he began, bowing his head.

The priest chanted in this manner for several minutes. Conan began to feel a strange tingling in his lower arm, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up straight. He suppressed the urge to jerk his hand away from the healer and his magick, forcing back his instinctive distrust of any sorcerous mummery. He bore no ill will toward Mitra or his worshippers, although his own god was Crom, who lived under the cold, grey mountains of Ben Morgh, in Cimmeria. His people seldom prayed to their grim deity, as Crom’s gift to them—the strength to strive and slay—was given at birth. Praying to the god for anything else would be an admission of weakness. Conan doubted that Crom would even answer such prayers.

Finally, Madesus stopped praying and let go of the wrist. His brow was beaded with sweat; he wiped it with a slightly shaking hand. Then he dumped the contents of a small phial into a cup of water and drank it down. After a moment, his hand stopped shaking. Noting the mystified expression on Conan’s face, the priest smiled and spoke reassuringly.

“Although very short, the prayer of healing is somewhat taxing. Now, try flexing your fingers.”

Conan clenched his right fist, then opened it. Slowly and stiffly, the fingers responded. Visibly, his wrist was still swollen and discoloured, but it was quickly returning to normal.

Conan decided that whatever else he may be, this healer was no fakir.

Gruffly, he thanked the priest.

“What do you wish in payment for this cure?”

“I can accept nothing personally. You must, however, give me something to bring to the temple as an offering. Normally, a priest would ask for three gold crowns in return for this service, done for one who is not of the faith. If you give me nothing, the cure will soon wear off.”

Conan was about to object, but he had learned the wisdom of not bandying words with priests and wizards. Besides, he had his winnings from the dicing table. His purse had always emptied quickly; he would fill it again, in time. He reached for the pouch, then realized with a shock that it was not where it should be. His eyes searched the room, hoping that it had simply fallen off, or that Yvanna had taken it when cleansing his wounds last night. “My pouch! Have you seen it, Yvanna?”

Her gaze went to his belt, where the pouch had been attached. A few strands of frayed purse strings were all she could see. ‘The cords must have broken in your scuffle with… ah, when you had your accident last night,” she finished lamely as Conan shot a warning look in her direction.

“I see,” said Madesus, shaking his head. “If I do not make an offering soon—”

“Wait! Take this, healer. Its worth is doubtless more than three crowns, but I am grateful for your help.” Conan pulled out the cloth-wrapped silver bracelet, still tucked firmly in his belt. He had planned to give it to Yvanna, but she could not safely wear it anyway, considering its source. Since he had paid only two crowns for it, he was still coming out ahead. He unwrapped the bauble and handed it over.

Madesus took it, then dropped it suddenly with an exclamation, as if it were a venomous serpent.

“Mitra protect us!” he burst out in an astonished tone of voice, then carefully picked up the bracelet, examining it curiously. “An aura of diabolical evil emanates from this object. It has faded, but I sensed it when I first touched the bracelet. Whoever last wore it died a horrible, unnatural death. Judging by the strength of the aura, this occurred very recently. How did you come by the object?”

For a moment, Conan considered spinning a yarn to explain, then decided that telling the healer the truth could do little to worsen his present situation. “I bought it last night from a Zamoran named Hassem. His price was low, so I asked not where he had obtained it. He most likely stole it, or swindled someone for it.”

Madesus had looked straight into Conan’s eyes as he spoke, as if trying to tell if the Cimmerian was being truthful. The healer’s fair-skinned face was a mask of grave concern. “Where can Hassem be found? I fear that an ancient evil has awakened, here in this very city! Unless it is found and stopped, it will grow in power until none can withstand it.

May Mitra protect us!” His hands were shaking again. He refilled a cup with water, dumped the contents of another phial into it, then gulped the brew down.

Conan and Yvanna looked at him dubiously, wondering if the man had gone mad. What ancient evil was he raving about? Conan found it hard to believe that Hassem was anything more than a lying, low-life thief.

“The yellow scum has probably fled for Zamora by now. What is this evil you speak of? How can you sense its presence so, just by touching the bauble?”

“Priests of Mitra are instructed, even in early stages of their indoctrination, to recognize the signs and traces that mark the enemies of light. Later they develop sensitivity to objects, or even to places, that diabolical creatures have been near. Stronger evil leaves marks that are easier to detect. We call these marks an ‘aura.’ They are invisible to the naked eye and are felt only when the object or place is touched. Just as a skilled woodsman may identify a particular animal by the odour of its spoor, so may a skilled priest learn to distinguish among the different auras of evil and identify a particular enemy.

Priests who are confined to temples often lose this ability, since they seldom confront such malefic creatures directly.

“Although I am considered young by the standards of the priesthood, I have witnessed more spawn of evil than many a greybeard who stays within the safe walls of his temple. I tell you, this bracelet has been touched by a malevolence that I have not seen before, but I sense its oppressive weight, its desire to maim and destroy, its hatred for all living creatures. Perhaps through prayer, the Holy Father will see fit to tell me more about it. If he does not, then it is his will that I am involved no further. I must leave you now, but I caution you: beware of Hassem! He may be only a pawn in a game of evil, but he has become involved with the forces of darkness. Be careful that you, too, are not entangled in this web so deeply that you cannot get out.”

Madesus’s voice had begun to rise, and he emphasized the last with a loud rap of his iron-shod staff. Rising to his feet, he picked up his worn sack and carefully repacked it, then wrapped the bracelet in white cloth and dropped it within.

Conan took the warning lightly, believing little of the healer’s talk of auras and webs of evil. These intangible, priestly affairs would not distract him. His business was with Hassem, a man of flesh and blood.

Flesh that could be pierced with steel, and blood that would spill. Let this lunatic chase his crazy delusions of evil plots at work in the city, as long as he did not interfere with Conan’s mission of vengeance. He nodded good-bye to the healer and strapped his sword to his belt, marvelling at how much better his wrist felt.

The healer was right, and Conan knew that he would have to be careful.

Guards would be stationed at all the gates, looking for him. This might work to his advantage, since there would be fewer guards left to search for him in the inner city, where he planned to start hunting the sly swindler. Yvanna had told him last night that a large reward had been posted for leading the guard to the bracelet, a reward that the Zamoran thief would try to collect. Conan would watch the entrance to the palace from a place of concealment. Yvanna would listen for news of the incident; there was bound to be talk at the Golden Lion, as rumours travelled more quickly in the city than the scurrying of an alley rat.

Conan stared silently, reflecting on the strange healer’s words, while Yvanna prepared a meal of stewed spiced meat, goat’s cheese, and thick-crusted shepherd’s bread.

Having declined Yvanna’s offer to dine with them, Madesus wandered absent-mindedly toward the oldest and poorest of the city’s three temples that were devoted to the worship of Mitra. He was certain that Conan had withheld some of the truth, but he doubted that the barbarian had any thing to do with the evil he had sensed while touching the bracelet.

Unfortunately, the two had not taken his warnings seriously. He would have to investigate further and find the source of this evil; although he was no longer considered a priest by the clergy of Mitra, it was his responsibility not to turn away from evil and pretend it was not there.

Wherever he found it, he felt compelled to face it, though it might mean his doom. This he had learned from his mentor, Kaletos, years ago in Corinthia, in a final conversation that still burned in his mind.

“Hear my words, Madesus, and pray to Mitra that you never need make use of them. For there is great evil in the world, and not all of it in the hearts of men. Indeed, man himself is not born to evil, but turned to it. You may slay an evil man, but you will not destroy the evil that was in him. The accursed serpent-god Set is truly evil, and is but one of many ancient powers of dark malice that slither and crawl in the bowels of the earth. These forces never die; they may sleep for centuries, eventually awakening to spread their wickedness among men.

Weak, greedy men will heed their false words and promises. Such men are food for evil, and when they have been consumed, they are tossed aside, but too late to see the folly of their ways.

“Some men are destined to seek the true evil that corrupts men, and destroy it. My master was one who sought out and destroyed evil, and I sense that this is your fate, too. On his deathbed, my master gave me an amulet and taught me the prayers to invoke its powers against evil.

Now, Madesus, I give it to you; I advise you to utter the prayers only in a time of great need. You have chosen a path not taken by many. On this path, you cannot be a priest of Mitra, at least not in the traditional sense. Leave this temple and go forth. Seek the evil that awaits you and banish it forever from the face of the earth. But do not neglect your duty to man, or forget the arts of healing I have taught you. The amulet will not respond to one who uses it for his own ends, so your motives always must be for the greater good. I will pray to Mitra for you, and you will always be welcome in his temples.”

Madesus had left Corinthia over three years ago, hoping that one day he would return to tell Kaletos of his travels since they had parted. He knew that his master had been right; it was not his destiny to remain a priest of the temple in Corinthia, but instead, to be a foe of the sort of evil that men could not defend themselves against, with their weapons of iron and steel.

Through his travel-worn robes, he fingered the seven-pointed star of the amulet that hung from his neck. He could sense that the trail of evil he had followed ended here, in the city. By happenstance or by unseen intervention, he had been guided here. The bracelet was his link to the evil; he would find out where the malevolence lurked and hunt it down. His face was grim as he walked up the steps leading into the temple.

“Halt! You there—halt, I say!” an armoured guard bellowed, pointing as he drew his straight, double-edged sword.

Conan threw him a murderous glance, then turned to look quickly down the alley. It was blocked by the fallen rubble of a run-down building.

He had been moving carefully in the general direction of the palace, staying off the main streets as much as possible. Until now, he had not even seen a patrol. He doubted he could clear the wall of rubble before the guard would be upon him. There were no side doors or windows in this alley to duck into. Just as well, he thought, drawing his sword.

If these fools wanted to capture him, he would show them just how difficult it could be. He spun around and rushed toward the approaching guard. As he neared the man, he recognized Lieutenant Ekkar, a patron of the Golden Lion.

Surprised, clearly expecting Conan to flee, Ekkar stopped and dropped into a fighting stance. Behind him, the other members of the patrol drew their blades. Unlike their leader, they wore only leather jerkins and iron caps.

“Hold! I do not wish to slay you. I was accused falsely and have done nothing!” Conan shouted.

“Do not waste your breath on me, barbarian! Save your lies for the captain. If you will not throw down your sword and come freely, my men and I will cut you down now.”

“Throw it down? I would sooner bury it in your craven guts, dog!”

Snarling, the lieutenant moved closer, with the cautious stance of an experienced swordsman. He raised his blade and beat it against Conan’s, lunging in for a quick kill. He may as well have beaten it against a stone wall. Conan knocked the guard’s blade aside and extended his own point in a thrust that nearly impaled the onrushing man. Instead, the sharp steel tore away a large section of the lieutenant’s mail armour as he leaped backward, recovering. Conan could see the fear creeping into his foe’s expression. Still, the guard held his stance, moving warily, trying to draw Conan out. One of the men behind him raised his sword and began moving in, but the alley was too narrow for more than one to have fighting room.

Chest heaving, Ekkar shouted a few orders. “Felg, send for more men!

Jourand, circle around to the other side of the alley!”

Then he retreated two steps, his blade raised to meet an attack. Conan knew that if he did not cut through him, the alley would soon be overrun with guards. Flexing his mighty sword-arm, he chopped at the upraised blade with all his strength. The outmatched lieutenant’s blade snapped, ringing loudly as Conan’s sword hewed through it, the vest of mail, and several ribs. Ekkar went down, knocked backward by the force of the blow, blood spurting from the gaping wound in his chest. His mouth opened as if to say something, but the words were drowned in a flood of thick red blood.

Felg and Jourand rushed in, stepping over the grisly corpse of their fallen leader. One of them slashed at Conan with a wide-bladed curved knife, while the other swung at his head with a long scimitar. Ducking under the cut to his head, Conan lashed out, knocking the curved knife aside and disembowelling Felg. Parrying clumsily, Jourand backed off, almost slipping on the coils of Felg’s spilled intestines.

Pressing the attack, Conan made a feint, then a cut at his opponent’s unprotected flank. Razor-sharp steel sliced easily through the leather jerkin, passing deep into the guard’s body. Jourand screamed and dropped his scimitar as Conan wrenched his blade from the man’s side.

The guard went down, clutching futilely at the gout of blood spewing from the ghastly wound.

Conan shook the dripping gore from his sword and glanced quickly over his shoulder to see if anyone was coming up behind him. Seeing no one, he scrambled up the rubble and down over the other side, hearing shouts from behind him. More damned guards! He ran at full speed down the alley, hoping to lose them. The route curved to the right… and ended less than ten feet away in a high brick wall with no windows. The only possible exit was a stout wooden door, braced with thick, iron-bolted metal bars, each bar as long as his arm.

Without hesitating, Conan sped up and kicked the portal with all his strength. It rattled in its frame, creaking, the metal bars bending slightly. He backed up and charged it again, slamming into it shoulder-first with a bone-jarring thud. The wood cracked, and one of the iron bolts popped out as the metal bar bent further. He grabbed the bar and heaved, cords standing out on his brawny arms. Slowly, the thick iron pulled away from the door, succumbing to the awesome pressure. A second bolt popped out, then another. Only two bolts remained when the first of the reinforcements rounded the corner.

“Crom!” Conan swore as with a final effort, he wrenched the bar off the door and swung it like a club at the approaching guard.

The man went down without uttering a sound, his skull crushed. Conan hurled the bar like a spear at another guard, then picked up his sword, yelling out a blood-curdling Cimmerian war cry. The makeshift spear struck its target in the abdomen, its momentum knocking the man backward into his companions. Meanwhile, wearing mailed armour, more guards rounded the corner. One was fitting an arrow into his short bow.

Seeing the futility of rushing headlong into a storm of arrows, Conan took advantage of the guards’ entanglement and gave the door another solid kick. The jamb snapped away from the inside, and the door fell in with a noisy crash. Conan swore in frustration as he saw that the place was a warehouse, filled from floor to ceiling with huge barrels of wine.

He pulled one of the barrels down and grabbed hold of it by both ends.

With his mighty thews bulging from the strain of its weight, he heaved it over his head, then hurled it with all his might at the oncoming guards. The heavy missile landed full on three of them, crushing them instantly and knocking several others to the ground. It burst open, its wooden slats popping free of the restraining iron bands. Cheap wine splashed everywhere, dousing the guards. Conan rolled several more barrels out into the alley, effectively blocking the way.

Retreating inside, he crawled across the top of the barrels, reached the front of the warehouse, and dropped to the floor, peering out into the street through one of the cracked, dirty windows. He saw more guards rushing toward the entrance to the alley. Well, he had no choice but to chance it; if he could not outrun them, he would send as many as he could to hell before they cut him down. As he braced himself to kick the front door open, he felt a faint draft of air across his foot, coming from a seam in the wooden floor.

Pushing a barrel aside, he saw that a trapdoor had been cleverly concealed in the floor. It must lead outside somehow, or else he would not have felt the draft. Digging his sword-point into the seam, he flipped the door up and peered into the hole below. Crude rungs along the side led down into a dark pit, but the air was not musty, though it smelled faintly of sewage.

As if deciding the matter for him, the front door rattled on its hinges and he could hear the shouts of more guards approaching from the rear, grunting and cursing as they heaved themselves onto the barrels. He dragged a barrel toward him and descended into the hole, concealing the trapdoor with it as much as he could. Under the door’s thick wood, a stout iron bolt could be drawn to prevent entry from above. The bolt clanked as Conan shot it home. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the darkness beyond.

From below, a faint glint of light was visible. He tested each rung carefully as he climbed down the narrow shaft. The trapdoor must have been unused for years, judging by the thick cobwebs he brushed aside on his descent. The webs’ multi-legged occupants scurried away from the intruding human. He reached the bottom and saw that the shaft led to an apparently idle tunnel in the city’s sewer. The light he had seen came from a rusted grate in the street above. A far-off smell assailed his nostrils, and he heard the faint squeak of rats from farther down the sewage tunnel. He felt a tickle at the back of his neck and brushed at it, shuddering when he realized that his upper body was crawling with spiders. He wiped them off and stamped on them, getting bitten by a few in the process. The bites stung, but they were too small to be more than an annoyance. The blasted creatures infested this accursed tunnel!

Needing no further incentive, Conan decided to trust his sense of direction and went down the passage that he hoped led toward the palace. The guards would not be able to follow him if he took enough turns in these sewage ducts to throw them off their pursuit. In fact, he had not even heard them trying to break into the trapdoor yet.

Exhilarated by the battle, and feeling more hopeful, the Cimmerian wound his way through the old tunnels beneath the city.

IV

King Eldran

King Eldran wiped the sweat from his pale forehead and peered into the mirror that hung on the wall of his simply furnished royal bedchamber.

What he saw displeased him. This morning, every one of his forty-five years could be seen in his furrowed brow and haggard face. Just last night, he had begun to feel the first stages of some sort of malady setting in; as a precaution, he had mixed a Kezankian herbal concoction to fortify himself against it and retired to his bed. Now he definitely felt worse.

He would have suspected poisoning, but after the recent attempt on his life, he had watched all of his food as it was prepared. Last night, he had even seen to the meat stew himself. Each of his guardsmen had eaten from the same platter; his preference and theirs was for the simple fare that he had eaten all his life. Indeed, his tastes usually ran toward the simpler aspects of life—in his room, his garb, and his manner of rulership. This preference had lowered esteem for him in the eyes of many nobles, who viewed him as a crude boor, a goatherd with a crown. However, he knew that his subjects loved him all the more for it. He was no silver-tongued diplomat, but he had an honest and straightforward way of speaking that appealed to most people.

In situations where protocol and flowery phrases were of great importance, he relied on the skills of Lamici, his chief eunuch. Lamici had long served the royal family in this capacity. Eldran personally cared little for the eunuch, who smiled too much and spoke too smoothly for his liking. Still, Lamici served well in his capacity, and his family had served the Brythunian monarchy for generations. Eldran looked out of his window at the rising sun. He judged from its position that the eunuch would soon be making his routine morning visit to discuss pressing matters of diplomacy.

Eldran rubbed at his face and blinked his eyes, trying to clear the haze that was setting in. If this feeling did not abate by midday, he would see a healer. He had endured many of the usual soldiers’ ailments during the border wars. He hoped that he was not so old as to let a minor affliction wear him down, like a doddering beggar who complained of every creak in his aged joints.

He had been grieving over the recent loss of his only daughter, Elspeth. No doubt his grief had taken its toll. He could not help but feel responsible for her demise; she was the victim of some plot against himself. His rage at her death had dissipated, to be replaced by a terrible sense of loss, an emptiness. She had been so beautiful, just like her mother, Cassandra. It was a hard world that took a man’s wife, only to take his daughter a few years later. He had eventually learned to live with the loss of his wife, to adapt by plunging himself deeper into his life as a soldier. Memories of Elspeth flashed through his mind’s eye—her smile, her laughter, her golden-blonde hair and fiery temper. These were the memories he treasured.

Smiling sadly, he reached for his dark grey doublet and donned it, then pulled on a pair of black woollen trousers and boots made from the thick but supple hide of the rare Kothian black rhinoceros. After fastening his weathered sword-belt around his waist, he decided he was beginning to feel a little better. He straightened up and felt the familiar weight of his father’s Kezankian sword, its heavy steel blade pressing reassuringly against his side.

With the morning sun shining on him through the window, Eldran looked more regal than he believed himself to be. His short-cropped dark hair was streaked with grey and white, and he kept his beard short out of habit. Steely grey eyes, shaded with blue by the dawn’s light, reflected his inner personality: a man of iron will and iron integrity, honest, simple, and strong. His years of war in the borders of north-eastern Brythunia had earned him a muscular frame, and he was renowned for his skill with the sword. His face, though scarred over the years, was handsomely rugged.

Eldran’s agreeable nature and respect for others made him easy to befriend, and men had always found him a resourceful and successful leader. His rise in the small Brythunian army had been rapid, but seldom were any envious of him, as he earned his reputation through deeds that were brave and unselfish. His personal losses had hardened him, as a smith tempers a blade when he forges it. Many of those who served as his personal guard had been saved by him in the course of harrowing border conflicts.

He had become a general at about the same time as his friend, Valtresca. The two had campaigned together for years, each commanding forces that guarded the eastern border. Valtresca was from the south, closer to Brythunia’s capital city, but they had always cooperated to repel invaders from Hyperborea or Turan.

Eldran had been surprised when the officers and nobles of Brythunia had requested that he replace the previous king, Khullan, who had died in an accident a few years before, leaving no heir. Brythunian monarchs typically came from a military background, but usually they bore a nobler bloodline than Eldran’s. Eldran had expected that Valtresca would be chosen as the new ruler of Brythunia when the former king had passed on to the land of his fathers. He had even considered deferring to Valtresca, doubting his own abilities to be adequate for the task.

After struggling with the decision, he had accepted the kingship. He made Valtresca general of the armies in all regions of Brythunia.

Eldran had worried that his new general would have been dissatisfied, but Valtresca had expressed no resentment at this turn of events.

Several Brythunian nobles had told him that his acceptance of the kingship would quell their endless power squabbles, which were often fuelled by the choice of a king who was from one particular nobility.

Eldran was also the first king in many generations to have the loyal support of the hillmen. In the end, it was this that swayed him. The hillmen had never been fully respected by the past kings of Brythunia; they had no real wealth to speak of, and were by and large a crude and reclusive people.

Eldran saw that if he accepted the kingship, he could hope to unify Brythunia into a powerful nation and put a stop to the endless harassment of its borders by neighbouring realms. He had no dreams of empire; Brythunia had no resources with which to equip a large army for long campaigns to conquer its powerful neighbouring kingdoms, and he had not the inclination to make war and slay others for land. Blood was too costly to trade for dirt. Eldran’s hopes were for a country that would be safe and peaceful for its people. He had begun to negotiate with the lords of Corinthia, Zamora, and mighty Nemedia. They took him more seriously than they had taken the Brythunian kings of the past, since Eldran could raise an irregular army from his loyal following that would be large enough to pose a threat.

In the meantime, there were constant raids, explained away as “accidents” committed by “renegades.” Eldran believed that in reality these skirmishes were tests of his strength and resolve. Valtresca’s skill had been invaluable in proving the capabilities of the Brythunian armies. The more raids that were routed, the better the negotiations went. Unfortunately, there were those—Nemedians or Zamorans for the most part—who had seen Eldran as a threat. Within recent months, there had been several unsuccessful attempts to assassinate him. He had made powerful enemies, he realized, but he could do little to prevent this from happening. He regarded the attempts as a measure of his success; his plans must be working or these hidden rivals would not be seeking to eliminate him.

The very recent effort to poison him had resulted in his becoming even more cautious. He did not like being guarded more carefully, though he realized the necessity. He actually enjoyed the company of the hillmen, many of whom had fought at his side in the north-eastern mountain battles. He wistfully considered that he should have protected Elspeth better, but it was too late now. He shook the thought from his mind, trying to concentrate on the pressing aspects of his dealings with the surrounding kingdoms.

Eldran again glanced out the window. Lamici might bring news of the Zamoran prince’s response to his last proposal for use of border land.

From just outside his room, he could hear the heavy tread of his closest friend and guardsman, the Kezankian chieftain Kailash.

“The eunuch Lamici is outside your chambers, Lord Eldran,” the robust hillman said in his booming voice. “By Erlik, I would sooner bathe with a Khitan water viper than take counsel with him. His very voice taxes me. How you can stand him, I do not know.”

“Peace, old friend. He serves the people, just as you and I do, though I do not like him either. A kingdom is made up of many men, great and small, each with his own tasks. Who is to judge which men are more important? There are many in this city whom I do not like, but I have learned to get along with them. We have had this conversation before, but I see that your mind will never change, Kailash; you are as stubborn as the grizzled mountain goats that your brother herds.

Nevertheless, please bring Lamici in. We have much…” Eldran paused, wiping his brow, “… much to discuss.”

With a slightly bewildered expression, Kailash squinted at the king.

“Are you ill, Lord? You look pale.”

“Eh? Oh, a passing ailment of no importance. You worry too much, Kailash. I am no stripling, to be coddled so. Have the men see to breakfast, and let me do the worrying for myself. And let the eunuch in, before we wile away the morning with our idle chatter.”

“Of course, Lord.” Kailash grinned and pounded Eldran solidly on the back, laughing. Eldran winced at the blow, but his friend missed this as he hastened toward the outer doors to admit Lamici.

The king moved over to a massive stone table that dominated the room and sat down in one of the roughly upholstered chairs positioned around it. He began reviewing his map of Brythunia and its surrounding kingdoms, although he knew every pen-stroke of it by heart.

“Good morning, sire. A glorious sunrise today!” Lamici spoke enthusiastically, but his eyes were cold and flat. He walked toward the table, bowed, and stood stiffly by a chair, facing the king. Eldran gestured for him to take a seat, then noticed that the eunuch was eyeing him curiously. “Sire, you seem troubled this morning. Shall I fetch the healer to attend you?”

“Nay, Lamici. ‘Tis of no concern.” Eldran spoke with some irritation, for he was growing tired of these constant inquiries into his health.

“What news from the Zamoran prince today?”

“The messenger has not returned yet, sire. He was dispatched a fortnight ago, and the roads—” Lamici began, but he was interrupted.

“Yes, yes, the roads are fraught with peril, as you have said before.

Still, the fellow could have gone to Vendhya and been back by now. I will send a patrol to see if our messenger was… delayed.” Eldran again brushed sweat from his brow, the droplets larger than before. He was annoyed with himself for losing his temper with the eunuch. His patience had been worn thin by his affliction, compounded with his sorrow over the loss of Elspeth. “Perhaps we should adjourn, Lamici. I suppose you are right, I am troubled this morning. I slept poorly and could do with more rest before we continue our discussion.”

“Is it… the princess, sire? The people mourn your loss. I mean no intrusion into your personal matters, but if there is anything I can do to comfort you, just name it. I have heard that Valtresca has found out who committed this heinous deed and even now is hunting down the foul villain. The headsman has begun sharpening his ax, although a quick death is too just for such an outrageous crime.”

“The execution will give me no gratification; beheading the murderer will not bring Elspeth back. Still, for his crime, the murderer must be sent to hell, where he will be judged more harshly and suffer more punishment than mortal man could inflict. Tell me his name, so that I may know who has caused me this anguish.”

“Conan, sire. A wandering barbarian vagrant, who slew her for the jewellery she wore. Even now his neck would be lowering onto the headsman’s block but for the gross mistake of Captain Salvorus. He had Conan in his grasp, but let him slip through it last night.”

“Salvorus? Oh, yes, the young man from the south-western border. A solid warrior. Years ago, he held the river while badly outnumbered by the blasted Nemedians. Unfortunate that he could not apprehend this Conan.

If Salvorus could not catch him, the barbarian must be resourceful. See to it that the guards proceed with caution when dealing with him. A man who would foully murder the king’s daughter is an even greater danger to the people. If he cannot be taken alive safely, have the guards slay him themselves. Prepare an order of execution. I will sign it now.”

Lamici unrolled a parchment scroll he had carried into the room with him. Without questioning why the eunuch had produced the document so quickly, Eldran scanned it, then pressed his signet ring to the bottom of it. Lamici noticed with great satisfaction that the king was sweating freely, breathing rapidly, and shivering slightly. Eldran’s hand trembled as he embossed the parchment with his ring, and his complexion paled visibly. Good! Azora had kept her part of the bargain; soon this oafish hillman would die.

Lamici decided that he rather enjoyed watching this son of a goatherd suffer. If only you knew how your slut of a daughter had really died, bumpkin! Would that you could have heard her pitiful screams while she writhed in agony, “sire.” Soon you will join her in hell. “Valtresca personally assured me that this evildoer will be found and punished, sire. Is there anything else you require?”

“No, thank you, Lamici. Please leave me. I have much to think about and will send for you when I am ready to discuss these matters. Tell me at once when you hear from the Zamoran messenger. You may go now.”

“Yes, sire. I hope you will feel better soon,” Lamici added, drawing on all his skill to sound sincere. He bowed and left the room, his slippered feet treading noiselessly across the thick rugs that covered the stone floors.

Eldran rose slowly from the chair and called out for Kailash. Fighting the dizziness that had come over him, he realized that his condition was worsening. He moved slowly toward the bed and eased himself onto it. Kailash rushed in, his voice full of concern.

“I have already sent for a healer, Lord. Forgive me for doing so without your consent, but I know you well enough to tell when you need one. You stubborn Kezanki, you would be gasping out your dying breath before you would send for a healer yourself.” Kailash was doing his best to sound cheerful, but his tone of voice was betraying him. “Why, nine years ago—the Graaskal Mountain wars—I remember you walking ten leagues with a Hyperborean arrow stuck deep in your gut. It was darker than a Stygian tomb that night, so we did not even know you had been hit until you fell flat on your face.”

Eldran smiled grimly. “Truly, we have been through hard times together.

However, you exaggerate. As I recall, it was only two or three leagues that we walked. Let me rest. How am I to feel better with you braying in my ear like a donkey?” He sniffed the air, wrinkling his nose. “Not to mention that you smell like a donkey. Worry not, friend donkey, I will be better soon.” Eldran made his best effort to sound cheerful, but he doubted he was deceiving Kailash. He closed his eyes and sighed, laid back onto his bed, and soon fell asleep.

He began to dream a strange dream. In it, he saw people, some of them close friends, gathered around an odd-looking old black stone altar, staring up at its top. In the background, he heard Lamici playing a funeral dirge with a lyre. Valtresca stood with the crowd around the altar, but when Eldran tried to speak to him, he turned his face away silently. Then Eldran moved through the crowd, asking them whom they mourned. None would answer him, not even Kailash, who looked straight at him but did not seem to recognize him. Nearing the altar, he saw an alluring woman with jet-black hair and fair, smooth skin standing atop it. She reached a hand out to him, which he took; then he ascended the altar effortlessly. The crowd turned away and began to leave.

The woman, whom he did not recognize, embraced him and kissed him passionately. Taken by surprise, he struggled but could not break free of her embrace. He looked past her and saw that his wife and daughter were standing motionless before the altar, staring at him. Lamici continued to play the dirge, his fingers moving ever more rapidly over the lyre until the strings blurred.

Then a powerfully built man with black hair and blazing blue eyes burst into his view, brandishing a western broadsword. He rushed straight for Eldran’s wife and daughter, sword upraised! Opposite him, Valtresca appeared suddenly, but he had no weapon. He looked up to Eldran, pleading for Eldran to throw him a weapon. The king drew his own blade and tossed it toward the general, who caught it with the ease and grace of a juggler. The general raised the blade and slashed at the black-haired man before he could reach the two women.

When Valtresca struck with the Kezankian blade, the man dissolved like a handful of dust scattered into a gusting wind. Without warning, Valtresca spun around and drove the blade through one woman, then the other, while Eldran screamed soundlessly. Lamici crooned and strummed the lyre fervently, now playing an old Brythunian dance song, often heard during celebrations of victory.

The strange woman who held Eldran in an iron embrace tilted her head back and laughed, revealing rows of teeth sharper than a serpent’s. She leaned forward and plunged her long, razor-sharp teeth deep into his unprotected throat. His struggles weakened as she fastened her mouth on his neck, sucking blood out of him like a human leech. Soon he felt consciousness slip away.

Eldran awoke with a start, his veins afire, shivering and sweating. He tried to cry out, but there was some sort of pressure on his throat, choking the sounds back. He felt weak and disoriented, his vision blurring, then clearing. How long had he slept? He dimly remembered a horrifying nightmare, with a woman, an altar, and… The memory faded quickly, the details slipping from his feverish mind. He could see Kailash and the healer speaking in low murmurs at his bedside. He tried to raise himself from the bed, but his leaden limbs would not respond.

The healer wiped Eldran’s brow with a cool, damp cloth, saying something to Kailash that was unintelligible to the king.

“… wake suddenly… he yesterday he… herbs… sorcery… was tossing, and…find priest…” was all that Eldran could hear before the healer stopped speaking and left the room. Kailash bent down to stare gravely at Eldran, placing a meaty hand on the king’s shoulder. He spoke directly, but Eldran had trouble hearing him.

“Old friend, be strong… healer back. Will find him…” Eldran heard, before his eyes closed and he fell again into an agonizing sleep wherein the dream repeated itself, like a mad play set on a stage in the lowest pit of hell.

Kailash took his hand from the king’s shoulder and stood up, pacing the chamber. Over the years, he had seen Eldran drunk, feverish from the sickness of battle wounds, and suffering from fatigue or sunstroke.

Never had he seen his friend succumb so quickly, without warning, to any disease. Only yesterday the king had looked pale, but nowhere near as ghostlike as he was now. He had fallen into an unrestful slumber, tossing and crying out. The healer could not awaken him or ease his pain, though his eyes would open, then close again after a short time.

No food or water could pass down his throat; their attempts to feed him had resulted in nearly choking him to death.

Kailash suspected that foul sorcery was afoot, some spawn of hell summoned from the abyss to wrack the spirit and body of Eldran. No healer could hope to protect the king from these black arts. Only a priest or a wizard could help Kailash’s ailing friend now. He had sent three of his most fleet-footed men to the border for a Kezankian shaman, but even if they flew on the wind like winged eagles, they would not return to the city for many days. Be strong, my friend, he urged. Resist this demon that gnaws at your heart. By Erlik, I know you can do it.

Kailash continued pacing, wondering just how much time his friend had left, feeling helpless to stem the flow of life ebbing from Eldran at a steady, unstoppable pace.

V

The Lurker Below

Conan grunted in disgust as he stepped on something wet, slimy, and hairy wriggling out from underneath his sandalled foot. He had been trudging for hours in the tunnels of the city’s ancient sewer and was growing weary of wallowing knee-deep in the endless pools of reeking, filth-ridden ooze. He nearly gagged as a new, particularly vile odour assaulted his nostrils, rising from the syrupy sludge he waded through.

He had thought his sense of smell had mercifully deserted him a few hours ago, but apparently it had not. Fortunately, the sewer system was either forgotten or simply unused in many areas, or his journey would have been even more unpleasant.

He looked along the ceiling of the tunnel he was in, hoping to catch sight of the faint ray of light he had seen toward the tunnel’s end. A growing feeling that he had lost his way had begun gnawing at him. He had not seen light from the street’s sewer grates for several hours, but he was certain that he had gone in the general direction of the palace.

At a juncture of three tunnels he had passed over an hour ago, he had been unable to decide which branch to take. The one leading toward the palace had a very slight downward bend to it, which he found disturbing. Nevertheless, he had taken it, not being one to shy from the dark like a frightened child. As he followed the passage, the almost non-existent light had diminished to an inky blackness that even his keen eyes, adapted to the dark, could scarcely penetrate. He paused, realizing that the light he thought he had seen was actually some stone or rubble protruding from the wall, lighter in colour than the others. By Crom, he had had enough of this! Turning around, he decided to go back to the juncture and take a different path.

Moving his hand along the wall for guidance, he began to retrace his steps. His fingers glided along some oddly shaped stonework. Curious, he probed the wall and was surprised when a piece of it came off easily in his hand. The fragment had rounded knobs at one end, was jagged at the other, and was about as long and thick as… a man’s forearm. He dropped the object in disgust, discovering that it was indeed an old arm-bone. Hastening, he continued to feel along the wall to find his way back up the passage.

The hairs on the back of Conan’s neck raised as a sickening revelation dawned on him: the whole wall was composed of the tightly packed bones of men and animals. Throwing caution aside, he rushed up the passage, hindered slightly by thick muck sucking greedily at his feet. Now he knew also what he had smelled: the odour of foetid decay, the rotting stench of the dead. He was in a vast corridor of death.

As this realization dawned on him, he tripped over something damp and hairy and fell face-first into a stinking pool of scum. Spluttering, he stood up and regained his balance, wiping the sludge from his face. He heard a wet, sucking noise, and an unnatural, bubbling squeal sent a chill down his spine. He readied his sword just in time to make out a form of nightmarish horror rising from the ooze.

The beast was huge; its heaving, slime-coated bulk filled the entire tunnel. Slobbering and squealing obscenely, it splashed toward Conan.

He moved back, trying to stay out of its reach. He could get only a vague idea of its form: a lumpy, mushroom-shaped body and a dozen or so long tentacles, each one hairy on top but covered with spongy, octopus-like suckers on its underside. Without warning, one of the tentacles lashed out like a whip. Conan avoided its sweep by leaping straight into the air. Unfortunately, he had misjudged the height of the tunnel, and his head smashed forcefully into the ceiling, bringing chunks of rock and bone down on top of him. Momentarily stunned, he stood motionless in the tunnel while a few more of the writhing tentacles coiled tightly around him, seizing his leg and waist in a vice-like grip.

Meanwhile, the unstable ceiling had continued collapsing around him, crashing down in an avalanche of stones and skeletal remains. Out of the corner of his eye, Conan saw a thin ray of light from above piercing the darkness that surrounded him. Evidently he was closer to the surface than he thought, for the cave-in had actually exposed the tunnel to the sun from above, albeit only faintly.

The ray of light served to illuminate the corridor enough for Conan to see the freakish monstrosity holding him in its deadly grip. Clumps of matted hair, in various sickly hues of ochre, thatched its mottled hide, covering wrinkled, pebbly, pinkish-white skin. Revolting growths of green mould sprouted from its skin, like noxious boils. The noisome creature’s central toothless maw, wide enough to swallow a man whole, made obscene slobbering noises and drooled an unspeakably putrescent sludge.

The bristly tentacle around Conan’s waist flexed, abruptly squeezing him with crushing force. The constriction shoved the breath out of his lungs, and spongy suckers on the tentacle’s underside slurped at his skin like hundreds of greedy, round leeches. The circulation in his left leg was fading quickly as the tentacle continued to clench with increasing pressure. Conan’s head cleared slightly from the beating taken by the crumbling ceiling above, and with his sword, he chopped viciously at the tentacle encircling his waist. The blade bit deep, nearly shearing through. Howling, the beast withdrew the injured member and yanked unexpectedly at Conan’s leg.

Pulled off balance, the Cimmerian went down again, striking the back of his head solidly on the hard stone floor. Had his bull neck not craned forward at the last instant, his skull would have been crushed like an eggshell against the solid rock. His sword was jarred from his grasp; he groped for it in the dim light while thrashing and kicking at the tentacle pulverizing his leg.

The beast still did not release him, but instead began dragging him to its greedily awaiting mouth. Stringy droplets of black ichor fell from its partially open maw, sizzling and smoking where they struck the floor. As it manoeuvred Conan nearer, heavy folds of skin in the centre of its body rolled back, revealing a single malevolent dark-red eye, larger than Conan’s head. The glistening orb bulged grotesquely as its slitted black pupil stared at the Cimmerian, reflecting some demonic intelligence.

Conan groped desperately for his sword but it lay just beyond his fingertips. Bracing himself against the wall with his free leg, he tried futilely to prevent the beast from dragging him further toward its slavering orifice. He groped on the floor for finger-holds, but his hands found only the loose stones and debris that had fallen from the ceiling. Desperate, he seized a larger stone with both hands and heaved it at the beast’s exposed eye, his thickly muscled arms exerting all the force that he could bring to bear. The missile struck the great eye with a sickening wet splat, punching into the creature’s soft innards.

Mortally wounded, it began convulsing, its limbs flailing as it writhed in throes of agony.

However, it did not release Conan’s trapped leg, but rather, increased the awesome pressure until he felt his bones being ground to powder. It raised Conan up and slammed him into the wall of the tunnel, then pounded him against the floor until the very ground around the barbarian was shaking with the beast’s violent, dying spasms. More of the ceiling came loose, and tons of dirt, rock, and bones dumped onto the beast until it moved no more. The limb pinning Conan’s leg relaxed, its deadly coils loosened.

Breathing raggedly, Conan dragged himself away from the dead, grisly brute that had nearly slain him. His leg was miraculously unbroken; he could feel the painful tingle of its returning circulation. The last cave-in had permitted more light to shine into the tunnel. He could see hundreds of oozing, red rings around his waist and leg, where the suckers had been leeching his blood. Ugly burns from the tentacles’ abrasive bristles had raised up all over his flesh, and his waist ached where he had nearly been squeezed in half. A torturer’s rack would have been kinder to his body than the sewer’s unnatural man-eater. Every inch of him felt bruised and racked by the severe beating he had taken, the pounding against the tunnel walls as if he were a human bludgeon.

Conan retrieved his sword and got slowly to his feet, limping. Peering upward, he could see that a shaft had been opened by the collapsing ceiling, wide enough for him to climb to the surface. Miraculously, the roof had not caved in completely, entombing him in these reeking sewers with the lurking horror he had just escaped. The original foundation of the sewers had held fast. Conan estimated that the climb up was at least eighty or ninety feet, but for a Cimmerian hillman, such an ascent would be leisurely. In his youth, he had climbed steeper mountains with fewer footholds.

Moving cautiously to avoid pulling down more of the roof, Conan ascended, trusting to his questionable luck that there would be no guards standing by at the surface. The battle had raised enough of a commotion for someone above to have heard it. His battered body was in poor shape to get involved in a pitched battle, but his animal-like-vitality was already preparing him for whatever would happen next. Conan was rapidly recovering from an experience that would have rendered most men dead, mad, or in shock for days.

The climb took longer than he had anticipated. His progress was impeded by the rocks’ instability, and several times he had slipped backward a few feet before regaining a hold. His tortured body was slow to respond to the further demands he was making of it. At last his perseverance was rewarded and he reached the safe ground of the surface. He immediately noticed that the sun was much lower in the sky than he would have believed. His sense of time had somehow failed him in the sewer tunnels; wandering through them must have taken nearly half the day. His sense of direction had served him better; the palace was only a few hundred paces away. He had managed to surface in one of the many expansive gardens that surrounded the palace. Although the palace gates were heavily guarded, and the entrance to the palace barred, no guards patrolled the gardens. Fate had treated him kindly on his latest roll of the dice.

Instinctively, he left the newly made crater now marking the garden he was in and moved into a nearby thicket of carefully trimmed needle-trees. His probing eyes searched the area from his new vantage point, seeking any sign that his unexpected appearance had been discovered. All was quiet; no hordes of guards came rushing out into the palace grounds. Far away, he could see a few guards milling around the palace’s bronze front door.

Several hundred paces in the opposite direction were the outer palace walls, immense stone bulwarks wide enough for two men to walk on side by side, and easily thrice Conan’s height. Set into the walls, stout, crudely constructed iron gates hung on massive hinges, flanked by buttresses of stone for reinforcement. The walls and gates had been built generations ago, beyond the memory of any lore-master or dusty history book. Many a battering ram had splintered like a twig against this impressive portal. The walls were made of a curious stone that had resisted the bombardment of countless missiles, launched by the ballista of would-be conquerors.

Conan scowled with the realization that he was trapped behind the walls. He must find a place to conceal himself until nightfall, when he could slip over them unseen. His body was still covered with the drying dirt and muck from the sewer below, effectively camouflaging him.

Although he longed to rinse the slime off himself, he would wait for a more opportune time.

His eyes continued their surveillance of the palace grounds, until he saw his chance for concealment. A huge cart stood unattended not fifty paces from the thicket he was crouching in. The cart was loaded with hay, no doubt destined for the royal stables. He could slip into it, lodge beneath the cover of the hay, and peer out between the wooden slats of the cart’s walls, where he would have a perfect view of the palace’s front door. The cart was sitting less than five feet from the path, affording a perfect view of anyone who might come along. Conan would watch from here. Maybe Hassem had not yet arrived to collect his reward. Now he was even angrier than before with the Zamoran scum, who was indirectly responsible for his many recent brushes with death.

With as much stealth as he could muster, Conan darted for the cart, hunching low to avoid being noticed by the guards at the palace door.

He made a dive and quickly burrowed into the straw, making certain it covered him completely. Grateful for the opportunity to rest, he began his silent vigil of the palace doors.

Moments after he settled in, the outer iron gates swung open to admit a patrol of city guardsmen, followed by several richly garbed priests of Mitra. The strange party moved with haste along the path to the palace doors, where they were admitted immediately. A messenger mounted on a fleet-footed Aquilonian steed galloped out of the doors on some urgent errand. Conan sensed that something was afoot in the palace; he had never seen priests in such a hurry.

As if confirming his conjecture, another pair of priests in strange, dark green robes, adorned with symbols that Conan did not recognize, came bustling out of the palace, speaking to each other with excited gesturing. As they neared the outer gates, they were nearly trampled by a regally attired lone man riding a tall black horse. His deep red cape flapped in his wake like a banner in a strong breeze. He wore a polished breastplate with chain mail sleeves, and dark leather breeches. Polished metal studded his boots, and he gripped the horse’s reins firmly in his mailed hands. At his side was a thin, long-bladed sword with an elaborate hilt. He wore no helm, and his hair was streaked with grey and white. The crest on his breastplate was identical to the crest painted on the city guards’ shields.

The mailed rider shoved the priests aside rudely and trotted along the path toward the palace doors. Conan took an instant dislike to this man, though he had never met him face-to-face. After the haughty warrior had ridden inside, Conan continued monitoring the gates. For the next few hours, traffic moved along the path, but nothing of any importance as far as he could tell. Daylight was waning, and the sky was beginning to darken as dusk approached.

Just as Conan began to think that Hassem would not show, he looked along the path for one last time, and drew in a sharp breath. Marching through the gates was a procession of guards, led by none other than Captain Salvorus. Next to Salvorus walked the object of Conan’s hunt, the treacherous Hassem. His sword-arm itched to bury a few feet of steel in the worm’s guts, but he was in no position to take on the whole patrol right in front of the palace. He had waited this long; he was certain that Hassem would have to leave soon, and when he did, Conan would follow him.

Then a new idea struck Conan. If he wore the helmeted costume of a city guard, he could pass freely through the gates and follow Hassem without being noticed or stopped. The only problem would lie in obtaining a uniform large enough to fit him properly. The sky had begun to darken, casting shadows over the gardens. Conan slid carefully out of the cart and crawled underneath it, crouching behind the wheel closest to the path. After a brief wait, a small patrol came through the gates, but the guard at the rear was too short.

Conan continued to wait, hoping that a taller guard would pass by. He was startled by a movement out of the corner of his eye. A man leading a horse was approaching the cart. From the look of his mud-stained clothes, Conan guessed that he was a gardener, or a grounds keeper of some kind. The man was tall and strongly built, much like the Cimmerian. He wore a hillman’s simple cloth headdress, designed to block the sun’s sweltering rays. Grinning, Conan altered his plan.

After his messy trip through the sewers, he looked more like a gardener than a guard, anyway.

After the gardener reached the cart, he began to fasten the horse’s harness to the crossbar. His back was to the crouching barbarian, who remained unseen in the encroaching darkness of evening. Conan stepped quietly out from underneath the cart and grabbed the hapless man from behind, clamping one hand over the fellow’s mouth to stifle any cries that would alert the palace guards. Conan bore him down to the ground, intending to knock him senseless, but the gardener twisted nimbly aside, and it was Conan’s head that crashed into the dirt, face first.

The gardener jumped up and began yelling loudly and frantically to the guards who stood by the palace doors.

“Crom!” Conan cursed, sputtering through a mouthful of turf. He spat, then hooked an arm around the screaming man’s leg, pulling him heavily to the ground. The gardener’s jaw struck the crossbar of the cart as he fell, stunned. So much for stealth, Conan thought, as he got to his feet and readied his blade for the charge of the palace guards who hastened toward him. The horse, bound to the cart’s crossbar, bolted in sudden terror straight for the guards. A corner of the cart caught Conan painfully on his shoulder, jarring his sword out of his hand and nearly knocking him down again. The Cimmerian’s weight stopped the cart as the horse’s harness-strap slid off the crossbar.

Reaching for his fallen sword, Conan accidentally placed his foot in one of the harness’s loops. The slack in the strap was taken up instantly by the bolting horse, tightening the loop around Conan’s ankle and pulling him unceremoniously off his feet. “Belial blast you, beast!” he cursed, just before the wind was knocked out of him by his sudden impact with the turf. Giving up hope of retrieving his sword, he bent all his strength to the seemingly hopeless task of freeing his ankle from the strap and the fleeing horse.

As the animal gained speed, it dragged the barbarian through a punishing gauntlet of bumps, rocks, and bushes, galloping madly all the while through the palace gardens. Conan’s ankle was twisted brutally; he felt as if his foot was about to be torn from his leg. The Cimmerian knew that even he could not take this kind of abuse for long. He groped frantically for the strap while trying desperately to find a way out of his predicament. Directly ahead, he saw a row of widely spaced trees.

Instead of veering off, the charging stallion plunged right through one of the gaps.

Twisting violently, Conan extended his arms and locked them in a death grip around the trunk of a tree, bracing himself for the shock. The horse came to a sudden stop, causing every joint in the Cimmerian’s body to scream at once as his sinews and bones were pitted against those of the horse in a hopelessly unbalanced contest. Conan would have been torn to pieces by the horse’s momentum had the frayed leather strap not snapped first.

Conan slumped to the ground, exhausted. His arms were still locked around the tree trunk; he could not loosen his grip. Summoning his last reserves of strength, he let go and raised himself unsteadily to his feet, staggering and limping on his twisted ankle, which refused to support his full weight. Weaving dizzily, he tried to move back to the cart, where his sword still lay. His vision swam in a blurring red haze, which he dimly realized was blood streaming down into his eyes from his torn scalp.

Wiping at his face, he cleared his sight just in time to see the enraged gardener move menacingly toward him with clenched fists. Conan put an arm up to ward off the attack, but his limbs felt heavier than blocks of granite, and his reflexes were too slow. The gardener raised a mallet-like fist and hammered it squarely into Conan’s face. Conan felt his jaws slam shut and his neck snap back as his head rocked from the incredible force of the blow. He fell sprawling onto the hard ground, his thoughts fading away into darkness.

VI

Treason and Poison

In Valtresca’s antechamber at the palace, Hassem sat next to a heavy wooden door, in an elaborately carved chair. He sweated nervously while Valtresca paced before him, red-faced with anger, ranting.

“Hassem, you greedy fool! I told you to peddle those trinkets in Shadizar, where they could not be traced—not in this city! Instead, you sell one of the bracelets to this barbarian, and try to collect the reward without my finding out about it. You told me you would leave the city two nights ago. I know how treacherous you thieving Zamorans can be, but I did not expect your greed to overcome your intelligence.”

“Honoured General, you misinterpret my motives,” Hassem began, having just hatched a plan to get himself out of his current predicament. He had planned to leave last night for Zamora, but unforeseen, the city gates had been closed to trap the Cimmerian, and he had been told by Salvorus to collect his reward the next day, at the palace. Clearing his throat, he steadied his voice. “I have provided you with a scapegoat—the foreigner Conan. Everyone believes he is guilty, even your stalwart do-gooder, Captain Salvorus. The barbarian has no alibi; I have already made certain that he would be the perfect one to blame for the crime. Without him, the death of the princess would remain unsolved; a stain on your spotless record, a debt to Eldran that you could never truly repay. Surely the reward money is the least you would give me for this service before I return to Shadizar. You are right, of course. I am not foolish enough to try to trick you. I thought you would appreciate this final brush stroke on the plan you have painted so masterfully.”

Valtresca’s frown disappeared, and he began to chuckle. “Hassem, you are amusing, even when you lie. I admire your resourcefulness, but I caution you to be more careful of what you do in the future, without first consulting your betters—you will live longer.”

The General ceased chuckling, walked over to a tall oak cabinet with crystal doors, and removed a dusty bottle of wine and two ornately embellished silver wine goblets. From a chest next to the cabinet, he took a small pouch. “We need discuss this no further. I am satisfied.

Let us enjoy a goblet of the finest wine of Kyros and raise a toast to the death of this Cimmerian rogue. You have done the city a great service, and the king would express his gratitude personally were he in better spirits today.” Eyes glinting cruelly with sarcasm, he poured the wine sparingly into each goblet, handing one to Hassem.

The Zamoran eyed the vessel suspiciously, but Valtresca raised his with enthusiasm, ignoring Hassem’s distrustful expression. ‘To the death of the savage who slew the princess!” The general drank deeply. Relaxing, Hassem also sipped from his goblet. Then he took a long pull of it, realizing that it was indeed a surpassing vintage, from a land of world-renowned vineyards.

Valtresca smiled with satisfaction and tossed the pouch to the floor beside Hassem’s chair. It clinked loudly, and a glint of gold was visible from within. Hassem knelt to pick up the pouch, then coughed and clutched at his throat, dropping the goblet. “Bry-Brythunian d-dog,” the spluttering thief cursed as he reached feebly for the dagger in his belt, fumbling at the hilt and drawing it out unsteadily.

Valtresca deftly slid out his sword and stepped toward Hassem. At that moment, a loud knock sounded at the door.

“General Valtresca? I heard the sounds of a struggle—” said Salvorus, who had been approaching from the far end of the hall outside the general’s antechamber. The wooden door, which had not been latched firmly, swung inward from the considerable force behind Salvorus’s knock. Reacting quickly as the door opened, Valtresca savagely kicked Hassem in the face with his boot. The Zamoran’s mouth erupted in a spray of blood and teeth before he passed out on the hard stone floor.

“Salvorus!” the general panted, pointing at the fallen Hassem. “I have learned that this scum was the Cimmerian’s accomplice. He turned Conan in after an argument over how the princess’s jewels were to be split up. The fool tried to knife me! If he still lives, take this subhuman slime down to the dungeon and chain him. At dawn, the headsman will have two necks to cleave!”

Valtresca smiled again, congratulating himself on the improvisation that he had just executed so perfectly. An hour before, he had taken a draught of a special oil that would prevent the poisoned wine from affecting him. The poison was not deadly anyway; he had purchased it from a Khitan merchant who told him when imbibed, it would only temporarily cut off the flow of air into a man’s lungs, long enough to render him unconscious. On the morrow, the last men who could connect him with the death of the princess would be silenced forever. Only he and Lamici would know the secret.

The general looked down with irritation at his polished boots; Hassem had soiled them with his bloody face. He contemptuously wiped the blood on the fallen Zamoran’s tunic. A pity that the lying miscreant had decided to cheat him. Valtresca had hired Hassem to spy on Lamici, and to make sure that the eunuch disposed of the princess’s corpse as planned, without trying to implicate Valtresca. He had paid Hassem generously for this task.

In the past, he had used Hassem for many similar schemes; the Zamoran had always proved reliable. Hassem’s payment for spying on the eunuch was to be the bracelet and the amulet from the princess’s body, to be fenced in the wicked city of Shadizar after Hassem left for Zamora.

When Valtresca had learned that the avaricious Hassem had broken his part of the pact, he knew that he must find the treacherous Zamoran and silence him forever. Valtresca stood quietly as Salvorus leaned over the fallen thief, checking for signs of life.

The huge captain extracted the daggers with which Hassem had liberally equipped himself, then picked up the unconscious Zamoran. Salvorus thought it strange that the Cimmerian would work with Hassem, and even stranger that Hassem would be fool enough to attack Valtresca in the general’s own chambers. However, he reasoned that his experience with the Zamorans and Cimmerians was limited, and he had seen many strange and inexplicable actions during his tour of duty in the city. Shaking his head, he slung Hassem over one burly shoulder and began his trek to the unpleasant depths of the palace dungeons. He never ventured into their stinking halls and cells unless he was personally responsible for a prisoner interred there.

Only an hour before, he had hauled Conan into one of the small dungeon’s dank and mildewy cells, and had chained the barbarian securely to the wall. He had marvelled at Conan’s size and physique; these Cimmerians were a hardy folk indeed. Salvorus’s own strength had been great enough for him to lift Conan without aid, but his arms had felt the strain by the time he reached the dungeon. Salvorus had never met a man stronger than himself; much of his fame in soldiering had been brought about by feats of strength impossible for most men.

His father had been a stonecutter, and Salvorus had worked as an apprentice, lifting heavy slabs of rock, often holding them in place while a difficult cut or chip was made. Later, Salvorus had laboured in rock yards, chiselling stone out of quarries and bearing it to wagons, carting it to a future site of some nobleman’s wall or fortress.

When Salvorus had come of age, he had taken up soldiering—partially for the excitement it offered, but mostly for the opportunity to set aright the grievances his family had suffered at the hands of invading armies.

Slavers had caught his mother while he and his father were off at a quarry. Afterwards, his father had never been the same man, gradually sinking into a listless depression that lasted until his death, some eight years later. Salvorus had no brothers or sisters, so for a while, the Brythunian army had become his family.

For years after joining the army, he had courted women steadily, seeking the hot embraces of sensual, full-bodied, lusty Brythunian women. His career as a soldier took him away from his amorous encounters before they could develop into relationships; as a result, he had found no woman to settle down with and have a family. His rapid rise in the ranks of the army had prevented him from making close friends with many of his fellow soldiers since he moved about the region, serving under various commanders. His best friends were back in the border legion he had commanded as lieutenant. The city guards were a sort he had trouble mingling with. They were men who had been given “preferred” positions, not because of their fitness for the work, but rather, because of their relationship to nobles, or because of the favours owed to their families by the aristocracy.

Yes, he mused, he was a loner. He still enjoyed the caresses of many willing women he had met in the city, and he had filled many a night with bouts of lovemaking. While enjoyable, these encounters offered only short-lived companionship. He believed that several of the women would have accepted a proposal of marriage gladly, but he avoided seeing them repeatedly, deliberately letting any bonds of friendship dissipate.

He supposed that he preferred to be a loner, free to pursue his career without being tied down to the docile life of a typical city soldier, who gripped an ale mug far more often than the hilt of a sword. He knew of such men, who eventually retired, spending their evenings in taverns, swilling cheap wine and making exaggerated claims of their prowess in battle.

Such an end would be undignified, Salvorus felt. He would retire when his sword was pried from his dead hand, perhaps after having fallen in battle. The death of a soldier should be a death with honour and purpose. He would continue to serve, taking risks because he must to feel alive. As he descended into the palace dungeon with Hassem draped over his shoulder, he reflected on this thought, realizing that his recent move to the city had probably been a mistake. His only way out would be to prove himself worthy as a leader of men, fit to command as colonel, or even as general. Perhaps he would try drilling these sluggards who served him as city guards, and begin instructing them in the arts of proper soldiery.

Salvorus mentally planned a regimen of drills to improve the performance of his company of guards, so preoccupied that he did not notice that Hassem was regaining consciousness. The shifty-eyed Zamoran assessed his position as he bounced uncomfortably on one of the massive captain’s brawny shoulders. His head, arms, and upper body dangled down over Salvorus’s back, while his legs were gripped securely by one of the huge man’s arms. Hassem felt weak; his breath came in uneven wheezes as the poison coursed through his body. His jawbone throbbed in agony, and the thick, oily taste of blood filled his mouth. Small droplets of blood trickled out between his smashed lips occasionally, falling to the cold stone floor. When he ran his swollen tongue along his gums, he could feel jagged stumps where several of his teeth had been. Risking a glance at his surroundings, he guessed that he was being carried to the dungeons below the palace. He had escaped from them once, years before, but not without help. They were constructed in a confusing maze of corridors, like a labyrinth.

He noticed that his daggers were missing, but he could see their hilts protruding from a bag that dangled temptingly from Salvorus’s broad belt. If he could just reach one of them, he could slip it right between his captor’s shoulder blades, then try to find the pathway he had once used to escape. He concentrated on feigning unconsciousness, while judging the right moment to make his move.

He focused on one particular dagger, his “black dragon,” which had been rubbed generously with a paste made from the deadly leaves of the black lotus. One scratch from his black-dragon dagger would be enough to bring down a man and kill him swiftly with its poisonous bite.

Valtresca had not kicked out all of Hassem’s teeth, he thought grimly; the general would find that Hassem could still bite. Waiting patiently, the Zamoran maintained his ruse of immobility, like a serpent coiled to strike.

Unmindful of the imminent danger from behind, Salvorus continued his long march to the cells. The dungeon’s maze-like corridors were lit by sparsely placed lamps, burning dimly. Salvorus knew the secret of the maze, a simple method of navigating its endlessly branching pathways by interpreting symbols marked on the lamps, cleverly disguised as part of each lamp’s ornamentation. He was nearing the cell block; he could tell this by the smell permeating the area: a strong odour of urine, faeces, and decay. As he turned a corner, he saw that his nose had not lied to him.

The cramped compartments were arranged side by side along one long wall of the dungeon corridor; each was narrow and long, designed to hold up to a half-dozen occupants. The corridor providing access to them was only three feet wide. Conan had been placed in the first cell. Through the bars, the captain could see that the barbarian was still hanging in heavy shackles, suspended from the wall by stout iron bolts. Salvorus reached for his key ring and selected a large, rusty iron key, which he fitted into the cell door’s lock. Just before he turned the key, he felt a sharp, deep pain in his side.

“By Erlik’s beard!” he cursed in shock, dropping Hassem. His hand went to his left side, where he could see a thin-bladed dagger protruding.

The Zamoran must have regained his senses! For the second time in the last few days, he had underestimated an opponent. Roaring in anger, he swept his heavy-bladed sword from its well-oiled scabbard and aimed a vicious cut at the groggy thief, still dazed from his tumble to the hard floor. Salvorus’s murderous stroke never descended; without warning, he toppled over as if pole-axed.

Shaking the cobwebs from his aching head, Hassem got unsteadily to his feet. He could barely walk; his dagger-thrust had taken all the energy he could muster. Even then, the stroke had gone wide of its intended target, its thin, serrated blade sliding miraculously into a tiny unmended patch in the mail shirt. He noticed for the first time that his captor had been none other than Captain Salvorus himself. If his wits had not been so hazy from the poison and his injury, he would have recognized this sooner. Hassem cared not who he killed. He had slain many men less deserving than this buffoon.

Hassem’s skill with the dagger had served him well. As he stood, he pulled his black dragon roughly from the fallen captain’s side, its serrated blade making a rasping noise as several more links of chain mail were torn loose. Salvorus lay motionless on the floor; the black lotus was sending him into a slumber from which he would never awaken.

One final detail remained: Hassem must arrange the body to create the illusion that Conan had struggled with Salvorus and fatally stabbed him. The jailer would find the corpses in the cell, each clutching a dagger in his hand. He turned the key in the cell door and stepped in.

The commotion had roused Conan. Hassem was pleased to see the barbarian shackled tightly, without slack, in chains fastened to thick iron rings set solidly in the stone wall. Conan looked very much the worse for wear; his dirt-encrusted body was an aching mass of bloody contusions.

Nevertheless, the Zamoran approached him cautiously, his dagger ready.

“We meet again, witless brute,” Hassem taunted. His normally deep, tonal voice had degenerated to a rasping, guttural growl. “This time, I will have the personal pleasure of sending you to hell, or whatever black pit the souls of barbarians are sent to,” he continued, gloating.

“Now I will finish what I began, after I convinced this dull-witted fool—” he gestured to the prone form of Salvorus “—that the princess died by your hand. If only this dog knew that his master, his precious general, was the one who really had her killed!” His laughter came in short, choked bursts. Coughing, he spat a mouthful of blood and tooth fragments into Conan’s face.

Conan struggled to break free of the chains, but he knew that in his weakened condition, he would need hours to snap their stout iron links.

He strained with all his might, chest heaving, cords standing out on his bulging arm and leg muscles, but to no avail. “Erlik take you, Zamoran gutter-rat! Send me to hell, but know that I will be waiting for you there!” He spat a curse at Hassem, drew in a breath, and made a final effort to break out of the chains.

Hassem stepped forward, assuming an expert knife-fighter’s stance. He lowered the dagger, preparing for a disembowelling slash at Conan’s unprotected belly. “Your death will be slow and painful, barbarian pig—uuungh!”

Conan watched in astonishment as Hassem pitched forward onto the cell floor. A heavy, iron-hilted throwing-knife protruded from the thief’s back, buried to the hilt squarely between his shoulder blades. Hassem had fallen on his own serrated dagger; its thin blade had passed completely through him, sticking out next to the hilt of the iron throwing-knife.

Salvorus knelt at the door to the cell, his arm still extended from throwing the blade. Leaning against the door frame for support, he raised himself slowly to his feet. He felt certain that the Zamoran’s dagger had been poisoned; his side was afire with its venom. The puncture made by Hassem’s dagger was minor; Salvorus had suffered far worse injuries in the border wars. Whatever the poison was, its potency was considerable. He fought its effects, but he did not know how long his strength would last.

“By Crom and Mitra!” Conan burst out when he saw that Salvorus had saved him. “That was a mighty throw! I had not looked forward to our next meeting, but now I say well-met, Captain Salvorus.” He saw that Salvorus was off balance, and eyed the rent that Hassem’s dagger had made in the mail shirt. Blood seeped from it slowly, staining Salvorus’s tunic and pooling on the floor.

“Conan,” the captain began, “I now believe you are innocent… foul treachery of the worst kind, treason in a high place, here at the palace! Hard to believe, General Valtresca a traitor…” His voice was unsteady, as if he were in great pain. “I must bring news of this to the king, news of this…” he faltered, as though forgetting what he was going to say “… will free you, then come with me to see King Eldran and Kailash.”

Fumbling, Salvorus took the keys from the cell door and unlocked one of the shackles on Conan’s ankles. He blinked his eyes as if to clear them, and shook his head slightly. He began unlocking another shackle, but his great strength finally failed him, overcome by the lethal black lotus blossoms of far-off Khitai. A lesser man would have been killed instantly, but Salvorus possessed a vitality not unlike that of the Cimmerian. He lived, but he was in the sleep of the black lotus, a sleep of strange dreams that ended in death.

Guessing rightly that Hassem had poisoned Salvorus, Conan cursed the ill luck that continued to plague him. Now the only man who could exonerate him of the crime he was accused of lay dying on the floor of the dungeon cell. If only he could reach the keys that lay by Salvorus’s outstretched hand! At least one of his legs was freed. He bent it at the knee, bracing himself, and pressed off the brick wall with all his might. His tortured body ached with the effort, but he knew he must keep trying.

After what seemed like hours but was only a few minutes, he felt one of the bricks loosen, its mortar crumbling as it succumbed to the combined force of Conan’s mighty arms and legs. He continued pulling, concentrating on the brick. Finally it slid out of the wall with a grating sound, nearly pulling Conan’s arm out of its socket as it did so. Now he had at least one free leg and the partial use of one arm.

Swinging the block of stone like a club, he hammered it against the chain by his foot. More than once he struck his foot, sending waves of pain up his leg. Gritting his teeth, he continued, until the iron chain-link finally parted under the pounding. The stone block was badly cracked and chipped, but he had only to free his other arm and he could escape this accursed cell. Heaving, he strained against the last ring set into the brick wall. The mortar work was too solid. He paused to chip at the brick with the remnant of the stone block that hung from the end of his free arm’s shackle. Without warning, the iron ring he struggled with broke loose of the brick, sending him crashing to the floor.

He grabbed the keys and unlocked the shackles, then bent to see if Salvorus was still breathing; the captain’s chest rose and fell in shallow, even breaths. He tore off Hassem’s cloth tunic and stuffed it beneath the captain’s mail shut to staunch the flow of blood from the knife wound. The edges of the puncture were a sickly, purplish-black colour, and a ghastly odour rose from the wound. If he left Salvorus here, the man could die from this poison before proclaiming Conan’s innocence. Perhaps the healer, Madesus, could be sent to tend his wounds. He had told Conan that he was an expert in healing poison victims.

Conan wrestled with his options, finally deciding that he would make better time unburdened by the huge captain’s slumbering body. He must find Madesus quickly; if anyone could heal Salvorus, it would be the strange priest who had restored Conan’s wrist. He disliked abandoning the captain, who had saved him from an unpleasant end on the blade of Hassem’s knife. Now, if not for Salvorus, Conan would be burning in the hot fires of the lowest pits of hell. Silently he vowed to help Salvorus, though the man was in part responsible for Conan’s recent woes.

Taking the keys and arming himself with the captain’s huge sword, he emerged from the cell, looking each way down the corridor. He had been out cold when dragged into the cell, so he had no clear idea of the way to take. He began walking in the direction that Salvorus and Hassem had come from. After a short while, he discovered that the maze-like corridors of the dungeon were laid out in a random series of forks and turns, like in a maze. Fortunately, there were dim lanterns at some of the junctures; after his brush with death in the city sewers, he had little desire for another journey in the dark.

Still, he must be very careful to avoid getting lost in this labyrinth.

Time was a luxury he did not have; he had to reach Madesus as quickly as possible. As he tried to think of a way out, he caught a glimpse of a small, wet spot on the corridor floor. He wiped at it with a finger, then held the finger closer to the lantern. Blood! Fresh, too, from the look of it. Hassem’s face had been bleeding when he had arrived at the cell door with Salvorus. The wretched thief had unwittingly left Conan a trail to follow!

Relaxing a little, readying his sword, Conan swiftly followed the crimson path, which he knew would eventually lead him out of the musty corridors… to fresh air and freedom.

VII

The View in the Pool

Trembling, Madesus laid the jewelled bracelet down on a rough-hewn corner table in his cramped, crudely furnished room. Tarocles, the balding, scrawny high priest of the city’s poorest temple to Mitra, had permitted him to use this tiny room. Normally, it was reserved for acolytes.

Madesus shifted in the seat of an uncomfortable wooden chair and rubbed his tired eyes, bloodshot from lack of sleep. Since he had touched the bracelet the day before yesterday, strange dreams had disturbed his repose. Yet when he had awakened, he had remembered nothing of the dreams. Last night he had decided to learn more of the bracelet’s origin. Conan had claimed no knowledge of its history. Madesus had had no choice but to perform the rites of lore-telling, and to pray to Mitra to reveal the nature of the strange bracelet, which had radiated such strong evil.

From sunset yesterday until dawn this morning, Madesus had chanted, while in his brazier burned the acrid leaves of the Maljorna, the holy tree of knowledge. Sometimes he wondered sacrilegiously if Mitra actually had a sense of humour. Why else would the god have chosen the harsh-smelling Maljorna as his holy tree, which stank more than smouldering cow dung, instead of something with a more pleasant fragrance that would have served as well? Madesus’s eyes still burned from exposure to the smoke, and he felt strangely light-headed. To make matters worse, his lore-telling prayer had apparently failed. He lowered himself into the wretched cot that served as his bed, praying that his sleep might be less fitful than it had been the night before last.

Closing weary eyes, he began breathing deeply and fell into a fitful doze.

At the sound of his creaking door opening, he awoke. Feeling refreshed but still light-headed, Madesus rose to see who was at his chamber. His eyes widened in surprise at what he saw, and his throat suddenly felt very dry. Standing in the doorway was his old mentor, Kaletos.

“Master! ‘Tis good to see you, after all these years. Why, just recently I considered returning to Corinthia to see how you and the temple fared. Your health looks to be as good as ever. The years have been kind to you.”

“Madesus.” The old man in the doorway wore voluminous, bright white robes and spoke in a deep voice, roughened by advanced age. Eyes of bright green blazed like emeralds, contrasting with his pale, wrinkled face and skin. He was bald but for a few thin tufts of shockingly white hair above each ear. Around his neck was an amulet similar to Madesus’s, a seven-pointed silver star with a multifaceted amethyst mounted in the centre. He leaned on a birch staff, not unlike Madesus’s but bowed after decades of bearing the venerable priest’s weight.

“Master?” Madesus asked hesitantly.

“Forgive me, Madesus, for entering unbidden. The cold moon of Derketo hath waxed and waned threescore times since our parting, and the curiosity of an old man hath grown since that time. Thy brow is furrowed with worry. What troubles thee, my young friend?”

Still feeling fuzzy from his sudden awakening, and recovering from the surprise of seeing his old tutor, Madesus cleared his head with effort and spoke. “I have slept poorly these past days, Master. I fear that an ancient evil is stirring in this city. This object—” he pointed to the jewelled silver bracelet on his table “—is somehow linked to it. I have prayed for guidance, but holy Mitra did not find me worthy of it last night. Strange but fortuitous that you should appear in the city in my hour of need. Still, I would not impose upon you to intervene in a matter that has fallen to me. How have you fared these past years, Master? What news from the temple in Corinthia?”

“The weight of many years rests heavily upon my shoulders, Madesus. All is well at the temple, but I wished to see what befell thee after our parting, before Mitra at last puts my weary bones to rest and claims my soul. You were my best acolyte, and the burden I laid upon thee at our parting was great. ‘Tis not an easy path thou hast chosen; I followed it for many years, until holy Mitra, in his boundless wisdom, directed me to the temple of Corinthia, where I initiated thee into the ancient and secret Order of Xuoquelos. In time, thou wilt tutor another, as it hath been for centuries uncounted. Thou art the last of an Order that hath watched the world since the age of the Lemurian Empire.

“Thou hast been drawn here, to this place, for a purpose yet unclear.

Cast aside thy doubts about thy unworthiness and worry not about ‘imposing’ upon an old fool! Hand me the bracelet; let us lift the veil that conceals the face of evil from us. This simple floor will serve as a font from which the knowledge we seek will flow, Mitra willing.

Prepare for the Rite of the Font.”

Madesus reached over to a clay pot on a corner table of his room and dipped water out with a wooden ladle. He poured it out onto the floor of the small room, forming a thin, oval pool several feet in diameter.

Replacing the dipper, he carefully picked up the bracelet and passed it to Kaletos. The old man took it gingerly, turning it over in his hand and closing his eyes, his brow furrowed with concentration. Moments later, a scintillating silver nimbus appeared around his hand, expanding to encompass the bracelet and his upper arm. As the nimbus flickered and grew, Kaletos’s amulet began to glow brightly, like a seven-pointed star in the night sky. A cone of white light blazed from the amethyst to the shallow pool of water, which began to steam.

“Behold, the view in the pool!” exclaimed Kaletos. “Observe the font with caution, for its visions can oft lead one astray.”

On the surface of the pool, through the steam, Madesus could see the image of an ancient stone building. The view in the pool was like a painting made by an artisan with a keen eye for colour and depth; it was so realistic that he felt he was standing before the building itself.

The scene changed, and he could now see inside the structure. He recognized the trappings of a primeval temple.

Then the pool clouded before clearing once more to reveal the familiar figure of Conan. This new scene was even animated, portraying the barbarian stalking through the streets of the city, like a jungle beast in search of prey. Madesus could see Conan approaching the edifice present in the previous scene. The Cimmerian beat futilely on the building’s huge doors in a vain effort to gain admittance. Madesus tried to pinpoint the building’s location; there was something very familiar about its stone walls, which he could not quite recognize. He had the feeling that he had passed by it before, in the not-too-distant past.

The view shifted again to the inside of the building. In the dimly lit interior stood a woman wearing a long black cloak, the hood cast back.

Although only her head was exposed, Madesus could see that she was young and beautiful. Her straight, raven-black hair cascaded down over her shoulders and onto her back like an ebon waterfall, contrasting with the flawless white skin of her perfectly formed face. Her full lips looked as smooth and moist as rain-washed red roses.

A tall, stately man of middling years stood before the woman. With a start, Madesus saw that the man was none other than Eldran, King of Brythunia. She led him toward a large stone block at one end of the building, which looked like some sort of crude altar. When she reached the altar she turned to Eldran and smiled invitingly, then opened her cloak, letting it slide down to the floor. She wore nothing beneath it.

Reaching for him, she pressed the bared ivory globes of her full, firm breasts against his muscular chest and wrapped her arms around him, kissing him with wanton abandon.

Eldran returned her passionate advances eagerly, stroking and embracing her with increasing intensity as the fires of his lust flamed hotter.

Madesus’s face reddened at the sight of the two lovers, writhing obscenely in the view revealed by Kaletos’s amulet and the thin pool of water. Then he gasped in shock as the scene suddenly changed before his eyes, or rather as the woman changed. He first noticed that her eyes now glowed redly like smouldering embers. Her nails had grown, transforming into wickedly curved black talons. She opened her mouth wide, revealing row upon row of sharp, cruelly hooked black teeth, which she sank into the unsuspecting king’s neck.

Struggling to free himself, he thrashed and kicked, but to no avail. As Madesus watched in horror, Eldran’s struggles weakened and the teeth remained fastened in his flesh, draining his lifeblood like pointed ebon leeches. She paused, leaning back from the prone form of the king, and let a few droplets of blood drip to the hard stone floor. Then she looked up suddenly, staring straight at Madesus, as if he had been looking in at her through a window. The surface of the water rippled, the view blurred, and the thin pool of water slowly evaporated in a hissing cloud of steam.

Kaletos stood quietly in place, watching Madesus. The room was silent for several minutes as the healer struggled to interpret the gruesome and bizarre revelations of the pool. Finally he spoke, his voice filled with dread and loathing.

“Mutare. The woman in the pool looked exactly like a Mutare priestess, from the drawings in the iron-bound Books of Skelos. I have seen it, but I cannot believe my eyes. The Mutare were a corrupt cult, descendants of the decadent Thurian serpent-people who were obliterated centuries ago! How is it possible?”

“The Mutare hath long been dead, and the last Thurian died several millennia hence,” said Kaletos solemnly. “Yet thine eyes have not deceived thee. Truly, thou hast seen a Mutare priestess in the font.

Remember, great as their powers were, the Mutare were but upstart pupils of their Thurian masters. Many a sage hath sworn that the Thurians laid much of their lore down in tomes, lost when their empire fell into ruin. No matter how deep these vile tomes were buried, they were bound to surface in time. Holy Mitra hath brought thee here to face this ancient evil and drive it back to the hell from which it hath risen. Thy path hath been revealed, my young friend. To this fate hast Mitra consigned thee!”

Madesus sat down wearily on his crude cot and assumed a resigned expression. “So this is the evil I have sensed here in the city… a Mutare priestess. My only links to her are this bracelet, King Eldran, and Conan of Cimmeria.” Sighing, he pondered his predicament for several moments before speaking again. “Master, although I have read much from the Books of Skelos, I remember little about the Mutare. The drawings were hauntingly familiar, but the passages describing this degenerate post-Thurian cult were obscure. What knowledge have you of the Mutare?”

Kaletos leaned against the wall of Madesus’s small room, rubbing his snowy-white beard thoughtfully. “I recall only bits and pieces, Madesus. The subject is taboo, spoken of in whispers by foolish old lore-masters. Thou must not rely completely on the writings in the Books of Skelos. Many of the passages art subject to interpretation. As much as I can recall, I will relate to thee. The Mutare were terrible, hideous beings. Once human, they twisted their souls with frenzied rituals of blood and sacrifice. They hungered not for wealth, nor for the passions of the flesh. Their motives were those of hate and chaos, and they sought the power to bring pain and suffering to mortals. They despised humans, though they had once been human themselves, for humans have what the Mutare had lost forever: their souls.

“Using forbidden knowledge of demon-haunted Thuria, they traded their souls for the power to perform feats of sorcery that were far beyond the capacity of other mages and priests of the time. Their power was exceeded only by their malice; they thrived on the woe and travail of hapless humans. During the century of their dominion, they slaughtered thousands of innocents every day with pestilence, famine, or outright butchery. They incited war among the peoples of their time, and revived grievances among men that would otherwise have remained forgotten. The most notorious of the Mutare was Skauraul, a cruel, self-proclaimed monarch of the southern land now known as Shem. His palace, a breeding ground for obscenity and horror, was surrounded by thousands of sharpened poles, upon which any who defied him were skewered like meat on a spit. He revelled in the groans and screams of the dying, sounding all hours of the day and night outside his palace, as the wretches he tortured so brutally would die slowly from their ghastly wounds. Other tales of similar atrocities abound from this era.

“As with all evil, the Mutare proved to be their own worst enemy. Their numbers grew, but the numbers of available victims decreased, so the Mutare quarrelled among themselves over the rights to human death and misery like a flock of desert vultures over a pile of carcasses. The lesser Mutare were eradicated quickly in violent confrontations, until of the original hundreds, naught but a dozen remained. Some preferred to avoid the risk of conflict and withdrew into places of hiding. The others were eventually overthrown, including Skauraul, who was himself impaled on a silver spike. The spike was forged and, by one of our Order, ensorcelled with spells to bring about his downfall. A great scouring took place; sages tell of priests who spent their lifetime searching out and destroying any books or magicked items of the Mutare.

Much that was recorded of them was lost in this crusade.

“Still, bits and minutia of Mutare history can be gleaned, as you have done, from such works as the Books of Skelos. Legends say little of the physical details of Mutare. They may appear as normal humans, or as humanoids with eyes that glow as hot and red as the flames of the abyss, obsidian-black fangs and talons, and unnatural voices that ring hollowly.

Some claimed that Skauraul never aged, that his was the power to withstand even the ravages of time. The Mutare were hard to kill. They bled not, nor did they feel pain from injuries that would mortally wound a normal man. More deadly to them were the symbols and prayers of good.

“Madesus, if thou must face a Mutare, thou must first steel thyself in heart and mind, and rely on thy resolve and the powers of thy amulet.

It will serve thee well in such a conflict, but let it not stray from thy grasp! This is all I can say now to thee. I grow weary, and must needs rest these creaking bones. At my age, I have not the strength to help thee face this challenge, but my prayers go with thee. Take not the time to rest—go forth now, for the Mutare’s powers will grow with every passing moment. I will take my leave of thee, but perhaps we will meet again soon. Until such time, I bid thee farewell and confer upon thee the blessings of guidance and goodness, which holy Mitra hath given us. Fare thee well, my young friend!”

With a feeble wave, Kaletos straightened up somewhat, turned slowly, and hobbled out of the room, closing the door behind him. Madesus watched him leave, then rubbed his eyes and splashed water over his face. After a short prayer, he rose from his knees, his mind made up.

He would first visit King Eldran again, now with the certain knowledge that the king was dying from the foul sorcery of the Mutare. The amulet’s power might lift the curse, or at least stop the wasting disease from progressing. Madesus took his cloak from the peg on the wall and donned it hastily. He tied a large pouch to his belt and left for the palace.

It was a short walk from the temple to the palace gates. The healer reached the gates quickly. Below him, in the palace’s dungeons, Salvorus was dying slowly as Conan moved through the winding dungeon corridors.

Madesus persuaded the bored-looking guards at the palace gates to admit him. One tall, lanky guard, his breath reeking of cheap spirits, led Madesus to the palace’s main double doors, standing like huge monoliths of wood and iron in the moonlight. The guard drew his sword and pounded the flat of its blade loudly on the left door, three times in succession. Set at eye level in the door was a small panel that slid open. A gruff voice called out to the guard in a thick Zingaran accent.

“Gevaro! Get ye back t’ the gate! ‘Tis not dawn yet, by Erlik’s black beard, ye lazy sack o’ dung! Eh? What’s this, a visitor at this hour—and a priest from the temple o’ Mitra, by the look. What do ye want, priest?”

Madesus smiled wanly at the man’s banter. Zingaran buccaneers were seldom seen this far east of their homeland. “I am on urgent business concerning the king. Please admit me at once!”

“Ha! Me, admit the likes o’ ye, what with no papers an’ such, in the wee hours o’ the mornin’? I’ll admit no man without reason, priest or no!”

“Listen to me carefully, Zingaran,” Madesus said slowly, gripping his amulet and wrinkling his brow in concentration. “You will open the door for me. Then you will send this guard back to his post. After I enter, you will forget that we have ever met.” He spoke in a voice imbued with authority as he evoked an enchantment that would convince the stubborn doorkeeper to let him in.

“I-I-I’ll open the door for ye, priest. Gevaro! Get back t’ yer post, afore I nail ye up t’ keep ye there!”

Madesus could hear the Zingaran’s keys jangling, and moments later, the door swung open. He stepped in, wondering if getting to the king would be even more difficult once he was inside the palace. Still concentrating on the spell, he spoke again to the bewitched doorkeeper, obtaining directions to the king’s chambers. He traversed several of the palace’s long, narrow corridors, hoping that the doorkeeper had given him the right information. He would have expected the king to live on one of the palace’s upper floors, but the Zingaran had told him that Eldran preferred to dwell on the ground floor.

So far, he had seen no one else in the halls, not even guards or servants. The whole palace must be dozing peacefully, at least until daybreak, when the corridors would be full of the clamour and bustle of a typical day. Madesus was surprised by the apparent desertion, but pleased that he had not been seen. After making just a few more turns, he would be at the door to the king’s outer chambers. His heart began to pound, anticipating a battle to release Eldran from the curse of the Mutare. He could expect resistance, and he could not be sure of the outcome. Would the priestess’s powers prove greater than his own? He would soon find out.

He reached a short, wide corridor that the doorkeeper had described. He would have to go through the door on the right. He noticed two doors on the left. One stood wide open, hanging crookedly on bent hinges that were barely fastened to the corridor side of the door. The latch-and-bolt mechanism, also on the corridor side, appeared to have been torn apart, their stout iron plates ripped like sheets of parchment. This seemed odd to Madesus, since the rest of the palace was kept in very good repair. His curiosity aroused, he moved toward the damaged door to take a quick look and nearly cried out in surprise when he felt himself being seized from behind. A huge hand clamped over his mouth and pulled him backward, so abruptly that he almost fell.

“Sssst! Madesus!” a rough, familiar-sounding voice whispered into his ear.” ‘Tis Conan! Do not make a sound. I need your help!”

Madesus nodded, quietly wondering what the Cimmerian was doing at the palace. He felt the hand lift from his mouth as Conan freed him. The tall barbarian gestured toward the wrecked door and motioned to the priest to follow him. Madesus noticed that the other door, closed only moments ago, was now open. The Cimmerian must have been concealed behind it. The priest marvelled at the catlike stealth of which this black-haired giant was capable; Madesus had not heard a sound, and even the slightest scrape would have echoed in the empty hallway.

The priest hesitantly followed Conan into the room beyond the ruined door. He could see now that this had been the outer door to some sort of dungeon, explaining why the hinges were on the corridor side of the door. He suspected that the damage was more of Conan’s handiwork. He had healed the barbarian’s broken wrist only a few days ago. Surely, these Cimmerians possessed remarkable strength and powers of recuperation. Judging from the damage, he surmised that Conan had been imprisoned here.

Inside the room was another open door, in similar condition to the outer door. The crumpled forms of two palace guards, their limbs twisted, lay slumped against the doorway in pools of blood. Beyond the door, a narrow stone staircase led down, presumably into the dungeon.

Conan took a few steps downward, again beckoning Madesus to follow.

Frowning at the sight of the dead guardsmen, Madesus stepped past the bodies to the top step, where he halted.

Conan wedged the door in place as much as possible, but its badly bent frame would no longer fit the doorway properly. The light at the top of the stairs was considerably brighter than the light in the hall and the rooms, owing to the two lanterns hanging on the walls above the top steps. Madesus noticed for the first time that Conan’s body was covered with gashes and swollen patches of bluish-black flesh. Several minor cuts still bled, but the stalwart, blue-eyed giant was oblivious to the pain of these injuries.

“Conan! Fate’s loom has again woven the threads of our destinies together. As I recall, you were trying to avoid any contact with the city guard. What brings you to the palace?”

“I was seeking Hassem, the thieving scum who framed me for the murder of the princess. Instead, I nearly found death. This city is a pit of corruption and lies. Erlik take these civilized men and their dishonourable ways! By Crom, I have seen more honour among Pictish savages than I have seen among the men of this accursed city. The dogs trapped me, then chained me in one of their stinking dungeon cells. I was to stay there until dawn, when my neck was to be cloven by an ax—their idea of justice.

“Salvorus, the captain of the city guard, was dragging Hassem into a cell next to mine. The thief was to be taken to the block also, if Salvorus had not sent him to hell a few hours earlier. The worm slipped out of Salvorus’s grasp and planted a poisoned dagger in the captain’s back. He would have gutted me like a trussed pig in a slaughterhouse if the captain had not shaken off the poison long enough to toss a dagger through Hassem’s back. What a throw it was, by Crom!

“Now, as we speak, Salvorus lies dying from the poison in Hassem’s knife. You must save him! Before Hassem died, he spilled his guts to me, and unknowingly to Salvorus. He told a tale of treachery that led to this palace. The Zamoran said he was working for General Valtresca, and this news had Salvorus foaming at the mouth. Hassem claimed that the king’s own general had the princess killed, in some plot to further the general’s foul career. Come! You must tend Salvorus. I know the way—follow me!”

Madesus paused to consider. He believed Conan’s brief and jumbled retelling of the events of the past few hours, but if Valtresca was a traitor, they were all in great danger. The priest had never met the general, but he had heard tales of him: ambitious and cruel, an unscrupulous but ingenious man. Yet no one would have questioned his loyalty to the throne. Such a man was deadly to his enemies. What role did he play in the king’s affliction? Was he connected in some way to the Mutare priestess?

This possibility troubled Madesus deeply. He believed that he could face the priestess alone and best her, but to overcome Valtresca as well—that was a task for a skilled warrior. The priest disapproved of Conan’s methods, and had been saddened by the sight of the dead guards in the dungeon antechamber. Their only crime had been to follow orders and oppose the Cimmerian’s escape.

Still, Conan was well suited to the task of fighting Valtresca, and the visions Madesus had seen earlier clearly indicated that the barbarian’s fate was somehow tied up with Madesus’s own. In his heart, he knew he must heal the dying captain anyway. Mitra took a dim view of priests who turned away from the sick and the dying. Sighing, Madesus spoke to Conan swiftly.

“I will heal the dying captain, but once again I have a price you must pay. We have become entangled in the web of perfidy and intrigue pervading this city. Mitra has charged me to banish an ancient enemy lurking here, and Valtresca may be a link in the chain of evil that I must break. Against one such as Valtresca, my powers are limited at best. The malevolent creature I seek to vanquish will use the general as a weapon to destroy me. Valtresca would be a blade both keen and deadly in the hands of this creature. In return for healing Salvorus, I would ask you to shield me from Valtresca, and slay him if need be.

Tonight I must reach my enemy and cast it back to the dank bowels of the pit it crawled from. Will you accompany me?”

Now it was Conan’s turn to think. The Cimmerian’s decision was made quickly; his barbaric code of honour instinctively chose his course for him. “Had Salvorus not acted on my behalf, I would be burning in the pits of hell now. Heal him, and I swear by Crom to stand by you. Enough of this—follow me!”

Without further words, Conan turned and descended the stairs rapidly, knowing that with every stride, Salvorus’s life was ebbing. Madesus was hard-pressed to keep pace, but his quest had stoked a fire within him and he somehow managed to match Conan’s speed. The unlikely pair of warrior and priest hastened together through the labyrinthine corridors of the palace dungeon.

The journey seemed to take hours. Conan bent occasionally to look for the traces of blood on the floor, while Madesus gathered in his willpower for the upcoming tasks. On the way, he learned that Salvorus was dying from a wound poisoned with black lotus. The priest knew that the poison could not be made purely of black lotus blossoms, which would instantly kill a victim on contact. Hassem had most likely purchased blossoms that were cut or plucked improperly, and therefore had lost some of their nocuous powers. Madesus knew how to bring a man back from the lethal dreams of the lotus. He had once seen the ritual performed, and curiosity had prompted him to learn it himself. He hoped his memory would serve Salvorus.

Finally they reached the captain. Madesus grimaced at the sight.

Salvorus was clearly in the throes of a painful death. Rivers of sweat ran down his feverish face, and his lips were black and swollen. His eyelids would snap open, only to shut as quickly. He moaned and trembled, and his breath came in gasps that rasped like a shovel digging gravel from a pit. Working quickly, Madesus knelt and extracted a phial of salve from his pouch. He removed the cloth Conan had jammed into Salvorus’s gashed side and rubbed some of the salve into the nasty wound. This brought screams and thrashing from Salvorus. “Hold him down quickly!” Madesus ordered as he was nearly knocked into a wall by the delirious captain. Conan pinned Salvorus to the floor and held him steady as Madesus continued to work.

The priest began a slow, rhythmic chant while passing his hand before the amulet. Heartbeats later, a scintillating purple aura began to shine around his hand. He placed his palm on Salvorus’s forehead, continuing to chant. The amulet blazed with a bright purple glow, and the aura from Madesus’s hand began to grow until it encompassed Salvorus’s body. Conan drew in a sharp breath and drew back, overcome by his instinctive dread of magic and the supernatural. Salvorus had stopped thrashing, and his moans had subsided to murmurs.

Finally, Madesus ceased the chant, and the purple glow subsided. The priest dusted Salvorus’s face with a strange, dull silver powder. Conan sniffed at a refreshing but bitter-sweet odour in the air, which dissipated quickly. When the captain’s face soaked up the powder, Madesus clapped his hands loudly.

Salvorus’s eyes opened slowly, his lids fluttering. His breathing was steady, and the black swelling in his lips had begun to recede.

Painstakingly, he sat up and groaned. “My veins are afire, by Mitra!”

His vision blurring, he blinked and stared at Conan. “Conan? Is this hell, then? Were you slain, as I was? But no—” he shook his head as he glanced at Madesus “—a priest of Mitra would not be here if this were hell.”

“Nay, Salvorus, we are all alive, by Crom!” Conan bellowed, overjoyed that the captain had been revived. “This healer dragged you back from the abyss, so the devils in hell will have longer to wait before they gnaw your bones!”

“I live! I know not how, but I am deeply indebted to you. Great is your skill, healer. I must rise to bear news of Valtresca’s treachery to the king, and serve justice upon the general’s villainous, tainted body.”

Salvorus lurched to his feet, wobbling. Steadying himself against the dungeon’s hard, cold walls, he slowly regained his senses. Madesus eyed him, assessing his condition.

“Slowly, Captain, slowly. Your body is still fighting the black lotus, but I say now that you are healed. With every step, you will regain your strength. I, too, have urgent business with your king, but you must not tax yourself too strenuously, or your recovery will be short-lived.”

“I have no time, healer! We must go now. I gain strength from the image in my mind, of Valtresca’s vile neck on the headsman’s block!”

As Salvorus finished speaking, a sneering laugh sounded from the corridor far behind him. “Enjoy your deluded fantasy, my young captain,” said a familiar-sounding voice mockingly, “but I would be more mindful of your own neck than of mine!”

The three men whirled in shock. At the end of the passage stood General Valtresca, laughing, his polished sword and armour gleaming in the lamplight Behind him were over half a dozen heavily armed palace guards. The guards in front had crossbows, loaded with wicked-looking steel bolts. Valtresca and his troop were less than twenty feet away, in easy crossbow range.

Salvorus snarled at the general while inching his hand toward the bag of Hassem’s knives, still tied to his belt. “Deceiver! Have you no shred of honour or decency left, that you would kill us in cold blood?

King Eldran saved your life once, and you were close friends. Now you take his friendship and spit it back into his face. For this foul treason, you will pay dearly. Die, spawn of hell!” In a smooth, sweeping motion, Salvorus drew one of Hassem’s knives and hurled it with all his might, straight for the general’s breast.

Stepping back reflexively, Valtresca twisted his sword with inhuman speed and deflected the razor-sharp missile. “Slay them!” he shouted to the men around him. The guards with crossbows let their bolts fly, and the others rushed down the corridor to attack.

VIII

Rats in a Trap

As the archers released their deadly missiles, Conan dived into the open cell, pushing Madesus ahead of him. His swiftness saved them.

Madesus felt the air from the bolts rush past his head as priest and barbarian fell to the filthy stone floor of the dungeon cell. Hassem’s stiffening corpse broke Conan’s fall. He quickly rolled off and sprang to his feet, firmly gripping his sword.

Madesus was not as fortunate. His head cracked loudly against the frame of the iron cell door, and an instant later, his face impacted with the hard floor. His vision swam in blurring circles, and he barely managed to turn over before losing consciousness. Conan did not see him pass out; he was already charging the attacking guardsmen.

Salvorus escaped injury by falling quickly to the floor as the bolts were loosed. Having no sword, he jumped to his feet and drew two more of Hassem’s daggers. If he could cut through his attackers, he could reach Valtresca. At least these traitorous guards would provide him with a sword, he thought grimly.

“Conan!” he called to the Cimmerian. “Two apiece, but save the general for me!”

The barbarian grinned. “Rush the bowmen next. Those bows are slow to reload!”

“What of Madesus? Was he hit?”

“Aye, but not by a bolt. He cracked his skull on the door as he fell.”

Conan looked as if he was going to say more, but the two men had no time for further talk.

Although the corridor was wide enough for three men to walk abreast, only two could fight in it side by side. Salvorus engaged one guard while Conan attacked another. In the crowded passage, the battle raged.

Salvorus parried the crude slashes of his foe with Hassem’s knives, but he could not press the guardsman or risk a lunge with the short blades.

The two exchanged a flurry of blows, and the sound of ringing steel filled the air.

Conan made short work of his opponent, aiming a series of dizzying cuts at the man’s unprotected arms. He drew the guard off balance, then lunged in, plunging the heavy blade through his foe’s armoured midriff.

The man grunted in surprise and tumbled to the floor, dropping his blade.

With a wet, ripping sound, Conan tugged his sword free of the guard’s guts, then kicked the corpse’s sword over to Salvorus. While a third guard stepped up to engage Conan, the barbarian made a backhanded slash at Salvorus’s foe, giving the captain time to pick up the sword. The Cimmerian’s new opponent made a wide slash with his curve-bladed Kothian sword, aiming for Conan’s head. The Cimmerian parried the slash effortlessly and dived forward, lashing out with his hammer-like fist.

The miscued blow crunched painfully into the guard’s iron collar instead of his chin. Conan hastily withdrew his throbbing hand and readied his sword for another parry.

The guard was an accomplished swordsman, but his confidence had been shaken by Conan’s ferocity. He now attacked more cautiously, and Conan was able to drive him back several paces by sheer force. Eventually the man lost his resolve and raised his blade for a sloppy overhand cut.

Conan swung his huge sword with all his strength. It connected with the guard’s descending blade, shattering the thinner metal into a dozen shards. Conan’s blade continued its deadly arc, hacking through the man’s chain mail shirt to his breastbone.

With a bestial cry, the Cimmerian yanked his blade out of the guard’s shattered corpse. The blood of his foes dripped from his body and sword, and his eyes swam in a red mist. His savage instincts had taken control of him. Shaking the gore from his dripping blade, he roared a defiant challenge, like a tiger among a pack of wolves. “Who dies next?”

Fighting at his side, Salvorus found the Cimmerian’s battle prowess impressive. The captain was a war-hardened veteran, and he doubted that any of the Kezankian warriors he had known could have matched Conan.

Motivated by Conan’s bravado, Salvorus renewed his attack on the guardsman he faced. He speedily disarmed the man, then chopped viciously at his mailed torso. His blade punched through the mail and drove deep into the guard’s innards. He wrenched the blade out sideways, tearing away mail and spilling entrails. Still gripping a dagger and sword, he stepped toward the fourth guard as Conan moved to do battle with the last three men surrounding Valtresca.

The crossbowmen were reloading frantically; they finished as Conan moved toward them. Aiming hastily, they let their bolts fly at the charging Cimmerian. This was what Conan had hoped for. He dived and rolled, losing no momentum. By ill luck, one bolt fleshed Conan in the thigh. Its shaft snapped off as he came out of the roll. Wincing, he withdrew the splintered bolt with his free hand and flung it aside, ignoring the steady trickle of blood.

“Cowardly dog!” he yelled to Valtresca. “Will you whimper behind the skirts of these women, or will you pit your blade against mine and fight like a man?”

“Your squeals amuse me, Cimmerian pig! I would not deign to sully my blade with your uncouth barbaric blood! Besides, Captain Rogar here has requested the pleasure of separating your unsightly head from your shoulders.”

From behind the two archers stepped a short, heavyset man with a face flat and square, as if chiselled from stone. A crudely forged breastplate covered his huge chest, and he carried a mace and shield in his enormous hands. Brass gauntlets adorned his wrists. He flexed his bare, apelike, muscle-bound arms and grinned crookedly at Conan, revealing stumpy, yellowed teeth. The archers backed up behind him before Conan reached them.

Salvorus spared a glance at Rogar whilst skewering the last of the guards. He recognized the man as one of Valtresca’s hand-picked mercenaries. In fact, not one of the men in the corridor was a native Brythunian. “Captain” Rogar was little more than a hired Zamoran butcher. Valtresca had justified Rogar’s rank by citing the body count the man had piled up in the border wars. Salvorus knew that the grossly fat man was deadly with his mace. As he hurried forward to aid Conan, he yelled a warning.

“Conan, avoid his shield! Do not strike it!”

The cry came too late as Conan made a powerful cut to Rogar’s shield, hoping to crush it and bury his blade in the man’s bulging gut.

Instead, he found with a start that the shield had caught his blade; he could not withdraw it. The odd-looking shield was a powerful lodestone!

Cursing, he wrenched at his trapped blade with all his might, trying to dodge Rogar’s spiked mace. This was evidently what the Zamoran had hoped for. He swung the heavy weapon diagonally, catching the side of Conan’s head with a terrific blow. Stunned, the Cimmerian let go of his hilt and lurched into the corridor wall, staggering from the awesome force of the strike.

As Rogar hefted the mace for another swing, Salvorus tossed his remaining dagger, praying for Hanuman to guide his arm. This time his throwing knife was not knocked aside; it sank to the hilt in Rogar’s beefy arm. The chunky man dropped his shield but gave no other sign that he even felt the dagger. Conan’s sword popped free with a clang.

Rogar’s small, black eyes sparkled as he turned to lash out at Salvorus with the mace. He missed narrowly, and Salvorus stepped back a pace, thrusting at Rogar with his sword. His blade clanged harmlessly off the guard’s breastplate. Glancing past his opponent, Salvorus noted with dismay that the archers had nearly finished loading their crossbows again. Conan would be easy prey for their bolts if Salvorus could not dispatch this mace-wielding brute quickly!

With speed matching his desperation, the captain dropped his sword and hurled himself at Rogar. Surprised, the huge Zamoran flailed futilely at Salvorus with his mace, but the heavy weapon was useless in close quarters. Salvorus locked his powerful hands on Rogar’s throat and squeezed with all his might. Rogar grabbed at Salvorus’s arms, trying to pull them away. The two stood grappling for several moments, until Salvorus saw the bowmen take aim at Conan, who still leaned against the wall, his hand pressed to his ringing skull. With a mighty shove, Salvorus bore down on Rogar and used his superior strength to push the shorter man into the line of fire.

Salvorus’s timing was perfect. Once again the bowmen fired, but this time they cried out in dismay. One bolt sank into Rogar’s back, bringing a yowl of pain. The other bolt flew over the short man and buried itself deep in Salvorus’s shoulder. His grip on Rogar loosened immediately, and the Zamoran broke free, choking through his bruised windpipe and clutching at the shaft protruding from his back. He pulled it out and raised it over his head as if to plunge it into the captain’s bare neck.

His thrust went astray as Conan at last recovered his senses, kicking Rogar in the knee and sending him sprawling. Gasping from the pain of the bolt in his shoulder, Salvorus tore the shaft out and fought to recover from the shock of the wound. Conan reached down to retrieve his dropped sword as Rogar stretched his hand toward his mace. They grabbed their weapons simultaneously; Rogar, still scrambling to regain his feet, was slow with his swing at Conan. He looked up just in time to see the Cimmerian’s blood-smeared, razor-sharp blade descending. It sliced the handle of Rogar’s mace in two and bit deep into the Zamoran’s thick bull neck.

Rogar gaped stupidly at the stub of mace in his hand. His eyes glazed over and his head fell backward, tumbling to the floor with an obscene thud. His twitching, decapitated corpse pitched forward, spewing gouts of thick blood. Conan kicked the gory head aside and rushed straight for the two bowmen, brandishing his blade and bellowing an ear-splitting Cimmerian war cry.

Valtresca, looking less smug than before, assumed a fighting stance and retreated a few paces. “Quickly, you fools!” he shouted to the bowmen.

“Ready your blades and dispose of this lout!”

The two men dropped their crossbows and reached for their hilts, but the sight of a Cimmerian juggernaut coming for them was more than they could stomach. They turned and sprinted down the corridor past Valtresca, leaving the general to stand alone. Cursing, Valtresca ran after them, but his armour slowed him down. The bowmen slammed the corridor’s iron door shut behind them, and Valtresca swore vehemently as he heard the heavy outer bolt and iron crossbar fall into place. He was trapped.

“Cowardly swine! I will flay the useless flesh from your spineless bodies and feed you to the rats for this outrage! Open the door, I command you! Come back at once, I say!” He continued to rant, but the only sound from the other side of the door was the fading footfalls of the fleeing guards.

Valtresca turned to face Conan and resumed his fighting stance. The general’s jaw was set with determination, but a glitter of fear shone in his eyes. He held his ornate sword deftly in his mailed right fist.

The dim, shifting light in the passageway glinted on the gauntlet’s metal studs, and his eyes were pools of menace.

With his left hand, he reached into a belt pouch. Conan approached warily, suspecting that Valtresca’s bragging was backed by expert swordsmanship. He also had little doubt that the general would resort to dirty tricks.

Farther back in the corridor, Salvorus picked up his sword with his good arm, favouring his wounded shoulder. He hastened to catch up with Conan, but was wary of Valtresca. He knew that the general was a master of strategy and tactics, and was a lethal threat even without his guards.

The Cimmerian moved in, trying to force the general back against the barred door. He was closer than a dozen paces when Valtresca made his move. He sprang forward toward Conan, lashing out with his blade. Conan parried quickly, then made a lightning-quick riposte. His blade scraped across the general’s solid breastplate, digging a deep groove in its decorative crest work. Valtresca stepped back and tossed the small phial of liquid he had retrieved from his pouch, aiming for Conan’s head.

Conan, expecting this, ducked the tiny projectile. It flew past his head and struck Salvorus, shattering against his chain mail with a tinkle of glass. Salvorus continued moving forward, disregarding the impact. As he advanced, his nose twitched, catching an acrid scent. He glanced down with horror at the front of his mail, which was steaming and melting. He grunted in agony as the strange liquid burned into his flesh, hissing like water dumped onto hot coals.

Valtresca’s throw had put him slightly off balance, but Conan moved in again, feinting for the general’s arm. Valtresca’s parry was late, and Conan’s blade sliced through the general’s mailed sleeve and gashed the arm beneath.

“Swine!” Valtresca snarled. “Prepare to meet your bestial ancestors in hell!” With a twisting motion, he chopped at the hilt crosspiece of Conan’s sword, which had snagged slightly in the tough mail of the sleeve. The crosspiece was no match for Valtresca’s keen, expertly tempered steel. It snapped off, and the general’s blade sank into Conan’s hand, knocking the blade from his grip.

Valtresca raised his blade immediately, then plunged it straight at the Cimmerian’s unprotected chest. Conan dived aside, dodging the thrust, but his blood-slimed feet slipped out from under him. He sprawled to the floor, weaponless, as Valtresca’s gleaming blade flashed through the air toward his exposed neck. Defiantly, he put his arm up in a desperate effort to protect himself.

A loud scream sounded in the corridor. Valtresca’s blade continued its descent toward Conan’s neck, but spun wide of its intended target. The general’s arm and hand fell with it, no longer attached to Valtresca’s body but still gripping the blade. Salvorus, severely wounded but finally reaching the battle, had swung his sword with bearlike strength, shearing through Valtresca’s mailed arm and chopping it off.

He raised his sword again to finish the general off, but his great strength finally failed him, and he slumped heavily to the floor, overcome by his wounds.

For a heartbeat, Valtresca’s eyes met Conan’s. Then both men looked over at Conan’s sword, lying on the floor between them. Neither man moved, as if trying to determine if the other was closer to the weapon.

Conan’s hand, though cut deeply, bled only a little. His dented head throbbed hotly, as if it were a chunk of iron on a smith’s anvil, and blood oozed sluggishly from his pierced thigh. The Cimmerian felt no pain from these injuries, which would have devastated a lesser warrior.

Like a wounded animal, he fought on ferociously, showing no weakness.

Valtresca, a product of civilization, was far less accustomed to searing agony, like that coursing from the blood-spewing stump of his arm to his numbed brain.

The general made the first move, groping vainly for the loose sword with his remaining arm. His fingers closed only on empty air. As he saw Conan snatch the sword and slam it through the breastplate into his body, his only thought was that he had finally been beaten. He felt three feet of tempered steel rip through him, and a black void engulfed him. A choking rattle issued from his throat. He shuddered briefly, then sank to the dungeon floor.

Exhausted, Conan rose awkwardly and moved over to Salvorus, limping slightly. He bent to help the captain up, then grimaced. He could see that Salvorus was dying. Wisps of smoke rose from a fist-sized cavity in the big man’s chest, bubbling hideously. The vile liquid from Valtresca’s missile had burned a hole through muscle and rib and was eating away at Salvorus’s vitals. Conan shuddered at the thought of what the seething fluid would have done to his head.

“Conan,” Salvorus whispered, “is he dead?”

“He burns in hell, Salvorus. But say no more, by Crom! I will fetch the healer, who will tend your wounds. Stay here!”

Salvorus shook his head faintly. “Nay, Conan. Mitra calls to me… my time is short.” He wheezed, and red froth bubbled from the corners of his mouth as he struggled for breath. “You owe me not, but I would ask a boon from you. Take the priest to the king. Help him find and destroy the evil he speaks of. Save the king.” Weakened from the effort of speaking, Salvorus closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, then spoke his last words to the Cimmerian, who listened solemnly. ‘Trust no one… but the hillman, Kailash. Take news to him. Tell him… king must know…

promise me.” Salvorus gasped vainly for breath, closing his pain-misted eyes.

“He will know, or I will die bearing him the news. The evil will be destroyed. You will be avenged, I swear by Crom and Mitra!” Conan’s eyes burned blue with flames of anger. The Cimmerian’s blood seethed from the battle, and his thoughts were of rage and vengeance for the death of a comrade who had paid the ultimate price to save his life.

With a final, choking sigh, Captain Salvorus joined his ancestors.

Conan closed the captain’s eyelids and placed Salvorus’s sword on the dead man’s breast. Tonight he had fought side by side with a man.

Salvorus had died a warrior, and Conan would honour his oath to his former ally or pay for it with his own blood. Such was the way of Cimmerians, and so it was with Conan. Giving the matter no further thought, he turned to see what had become of Madesus.

The priest raised his aching skull from the hard stone floor, his vision clearing in time to see the sweat-drenched, blood-slimed Cimmerian step into the cell. Madesus blinked in a vain effort to focus his eyes and rubbed the side of his head gingerly with one hand. A large lump had formed by one ear. He winced as his fingers probed the rising to make certain his skull had not been cracked. Groaning, he sat up and faced Conan.

“Conan, praise Mitra! You live! Is Salvorus with you, or was he captured?”

“Neither, healer. Valtresca struck him down with trickery, but I sent the treacherous dog to hell, where the fiends are gnawing his bones.

The others fled, or were slain.”

“I must see Salvorus! My arts may yet save him, if he still lives.”

Conan shrugged and shook his head doubtfully. “I have seen the look of death in thousands of fallen men. though my years are less than yours.

Still, were it not for him, I would be dead. Look at him if you will.

Take not too much time, for we are trapped here through the treachery of Valtresca’s guardsmen.”

Conan pulled Madesus to his feet, and the two walked into the gory corridor, past stiffening corpses to the prone form of Salvorus.

Madesus’s face turned grim and he closed his eyes, hanging his head.

“I can do nothing for him but pray for his soul. His flesh has been consumed by the blood that flows in the veins of the scaly, winged Drakken, ancient beasts from a nameless era. Where Valtresca came by it, I know not. No man has told of seeing Drakken since the days of my great-grandfather.” Kneeling, Madesus drew forth a phial. He shook droplets of it out onto Salvorus’s body, while softly chanting a prayer to Mitra.

As the priest chanted, Conan walked over to the general’s corpse and snatched the pouch that hung from the dead man’s belt. Parting its strings and peering inside, he saw another phial, carefully wrapped in cloth. What interested him more was the gleam of gold at the bottom of the pouch. Carefully, Conan tucked the pouch into the thickest pocket of his leather vest.

Madesus finished his prayer and stood, gazing solemnly at his dead comrade. “Conan!” he called to the barbarian. “Let me bind your wounds, so we may leave this forsaken place.”

Conan shook his head. “We have no time for that, healer.”

He moved over to the iron door that had cut off Valtresca’s escape. “I have a promise to keep, and we must leave now!”

Conan turned to face the iron portal that blocked his way. It was stoutly built and appeared to be in perfect repair. He shoved against it hard, without budging it. Drawing in a deep breath, he pushed again, throwing his full weight into the door.

“Crom!” he swore, exhaling. “The door is barred from the other side.

Only a battering ram could break it down. We are stuck in this accursed place, like rats in a trap!”

Madesus frowned, his brow furrowed in concentration. “We should wait for the guards to let us out. Surely they will arrive soon, to see what became of Valtresca and his patrol.”

“Wait here? Nay, there must be another way out.”

Pacing like a caged tiger, Conan scowled as he racked his brain. As he gazed at Salvorus’s body, an idea struck him. He dug into his vest and took out the tiny glass phial. Very carefully, he drew out the tightly stoppered cork, then stood back from the iron door. Taking aim, he splashed the liquid generously on the front of the portal. Immediately the hard metal began to bubble and hiss like boiling water. Acrid smoke billowed from the door, making Conan’s eyes and nose burn.

Slowly the smoke dissipated. The potent fluid had chewed a hole, as big as Conan’s head, right through the door. Holding his hand steady, Conan reached into the hole and lifted the bar on the other side from its brackets, letting it clatter to the floor. Groping, he found the bolt and drew it. His upper arm brushed against the edges of the hole, and he felt the agony of contact with the residue. His flesh burned as though stung by a hundred wasps, but he kept his grip on the bolt, drawing it and flinging it aside. An ugly red welt formed on his arm and spread slowly. Madesus looked at it with concern but said nothing.

Conan kicked the door open viciously. It swung out easily, slamming into the wall with an echoing clang. “Quickly, Madesus! We must find the king and his man Kailash, before the guards reach us. Follow me!”

Nodding, Madesus hastened to keep up with the fleet footed barbarian.

He managed to stay within sight of the Cimmerian, whose uncanny sense of direction chose the right path through the winding corridors. They saw no one during their flight to the palace’s ground floor. At the top of the stairs, Conan paused to check for guards. Madesus leaned against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, puffing from his exertion. After catching his breath, he ascended the stairs slowly, watching Conan.

The Cimmerian waved him forward and moved quietly into the guardroom.

The area was deserted, and this put Conan’s nerves on edge. Still, the sun had not yet risen, so perhaps this was normal. With a hand on his sword-hilt, Conan crept through the palace’s ground floor, following Madesus’s directions to the king’s chambers.

Finally, he reached a large, copper-plated door that Madesus had described as the outer portal to King Eldran’s lodgings. The door was firmly shut, and Conan wondered why there were no guards standing before it. He looked over his shoulder, checking to see if Madesus had followed him. Conan had grudgingly begun to respect the priest even more. He had kept up with Conan, and moved quietly. Never had the Cimmerian known a priest like him. Madesus was unlike many of the pompous, altar-bound slugs of the Mitraic priesthood whom Conan had met in times gone by. He was curious about this priest’s past, but he had avoided asking questions, deeming it wise to stay out of the affairs of priests, wizards, and their ilk.

With a start, Conan saw a form emerging from behind a tapestry on the wall beside Madesus. He shouted a warning, but Madesus was grabbed before the cry escaped Conan’s throat. Then the copper doors opened with a crash, and the Cimmerian was caught in an outpouring swarm of Brythunian hillmen. By reflex, he began drawing his sword, but stopped as a huge, dark-haired Kezankian hillman loomed in the doorway and called out in a booming voice.

“Wait! Harm them not, dogs!” His commanding voice stopped the hillmen, who stood warily around the giant Cimmerian. The massive hillman pointed at Conan and smiled grimly. “You,” he said with an emphatic pause, “must be Conan. The priest, I do not know. We owe a great debt to both of you for exposing the traitor and his plot to usurp the throne.” The hillman looked down at the huddled form of a guard by his feet. With a sandalled toe, the Kezankian flipped the body over. ‘This wretch was one of the traitor’s guards. We caught him fleeing from the dungeon. After I showed him some steel, his tongue flapped like a pennant in high wind. When I learned of his involvement, I sheathed my sword in his yellow guts. Pah!” He spat contemptuously on the crimson-stained tunic of the dead guardsman.

“I am Kailash, King Eldran’s friend and protector. Come inside and tell me your tale. Is Salvorus with you?”

“Nay,” said Conan, his eyes downcast. “He fell in battle with Valtresca.”

Kailash’s eyes clouded, and he clenched his fists so tightly that the knuckles turned white. “This is evil news! Speak not the name of the fiend! Henceforth, he shall be know as traitor. May a thousand devils tear at his foul heart while he roasts in hell! Salvorus was a good man. He deserved better than to die by the knife of treachery. The mourners will croon a dirge for many days, and his memory will be honoured by all who serve the king. Release the priest!” he called over to the hillman who held Madesus. “Come forward, priest. Join me and Conan, and tell me all that has happened!”

Conan pushed his sword into his belt and released his grip on the hilt as he and Madesus followed Kailash into the king’s outer chambers.

IX

Descendant of Xuoquelos

Conan talked briefly with Kailash, sketching an outline of the desperate fight in the dungeon. Madesus interrupted in an impatient tone of voice.

“King Eldran’s time is short! You must take me to him now. As you talk, the king’s life is draining away like water from a cracked goblet. An ancient evil has risen, and has your king in its deadly, sorcerous grasp.”

“How do you know this?” Kailash asked.

“I regret that I have no time to explain. Trust me, or your king will die.” Although his tone of voice was controlled, Madesus tightly clenched his hands, and his face was drawn tight with frustration.

“I know not all his motives,” Conan broke in, “but no man may know the inner mind of a priest. Madesus means your king no harm, and his actions have spoken louder than words.”

Kailash fell silent, his thoughts in turmoil. He had suspected that the king was the victim of sorcery, not of poison, as others thought.

Still, how could he trust the priest with the life of his friend? He was desperate for a solution; the king was in the third day of his sickness and showed no signs of recovering. Attempts to offer him food or drink had failed. How long could Eldran last? The king was strong, and his will was harder than forged steel, but Kailash knew that his friend was dying.

“I will take you to him, healer, but I will be right beside you. I will not leave him alone with you. Conan, follow if you wish.”

His mind reluctantly made up, Kailash led them to the king’s inner chamber, where Eldran lay as still as a dead man. Three days had taken their toll on the Brythunian monarch. His face was pale and drawn; his eyes had sunk into his skull. Although he slept, his eyes were wide open, frozen in a glazed expression of terror and loathing. A dry, unrecognisable choking sound issued from his open mouth occasionally, and his fingers twitched spasmodically.

Even Kailash, who had seen the king’s gradual decline, was still horrified by Eldran’s appearance. Conan could see that death had its icy hand wrapped around the king; he began to doubt that even Madesus could do anything for the dying monarch. A gloomy sense of dread settled over the room as each man mulled over dark thoughts similar to Conan’s.

Only Madesus did not falter at this grim spectacle. Gripping his amulet in one hand, he whispered a prayer and laid his other hand on the king’s brow. There was a sharp, crackling sound, and a deep blue spark leaped from the king’s brow to the priest’s hand. Kailash cursed and drew his sword, but Conan restrained him. Madesus let out a cry of pain as the spark touched him, and pulled his hand back as if he had plunged it into a basket of venomous serpents.

“Mitra protect us! I can feel the presence of evil, gnawing at the cords that bind this man’s life. A Mutare has risen from the abyss to bring death and despair to the living. Her hold is strong, but by the will of Mitra, I will free your king from her grasp. Put your blade away, and put your mind at ease. I am no pawn of darkness. Behold!”

As Kailash and Conan looked on in wonder, Madesus drew forth his amulet, lifting it from around his neck and holding it high. A blinding white light blazed forth, bathing the room in its warm, cheering glow.

The two warriors blinked, then stepped back in astonishment. Madesus’s robes and eyes had also begun to glow. The glare was so bright that Kailash had to shield his eyes, while Conan squinted.

“I am from an ancient and secret Order. I am one of the last descendants of Xuoquelos, the greatest prophet of Mitra ever to walk upon the face of this world. He was not a priest, nor am I truly a priest. We of the Order are guardians. For thousands of years, our Order has kept a silent and thankless vigil, seeking to rid the world of ancient evils lurking in forgotten chasms and corners. Our Order has faced evil that would freeze a man’s soul and stop his heart merely to look upon the face of it. As my master followed Mitra’s bidding to fight this evil, so do I. The Holy Father has seen fit to set this task to me. I must not rest until the priestess of the Mutare has been utterly destroyed!”

Madesus’s voice had deepened steadily as he spoke, increasing in volume. The last words crashed into the room like a thunderbolt. When he stopped speaking, he relaxed, letting his shoulders slump. The light dimmed to a bearable level, and Madesus lowered his hand to the king’s brow. Once again a blue spark jumped from the prone man’s forehead to Madesus’s outstretched palm. This time, instead of pulling back, the priest closed his hand around the spark and tightened his grip.

His clenched fist began to glow redly, like a hot piece of iron in a smith’s forge. A loud, crackling sound filled the room, and thin curls of smoke issued from Madesus’s clenched fingers. The red glow subsided as he slowly opened his hand. The blue spark was gone. The white-garbed healer again stretched his hand out to the king’s brow, this time meeting no resistance. He closed his eyes and recited a prayer in a low, steady voice. The language was unfamiliar to Conan, who had travelled through many lands and heard many languages. He instinctively dreaded sorcery and the supernatural; as he watched Madesus perform the ritual, he felt a chill run down his spine. Kailash, evidently feeling some of the same dread, stood speechless as the priest uttered his prayer.

After a few minutes, Madesus turned to Conan and Kailash. “He is out of immediate danger, but far from being healthy and safe,” he said. “I have banished the demon that tortured him from within. His strength will return slowly; he may even awaken. His respite will be brief at best, for another demon will come to finish what the other had begun. I have been weakened by the rite of banishment; I dare not perform it again until tomorrow at the soonest.”

“Who is this ‘Mutare’?” demanded Kailash. His eyes blazed with anger.

“I will lead a thousand swords against her! By Mitra and Wiccana, no man will rest until we hack her to pieces. Tell me where we may find her!”

“Even ten thousand swords would be in vain,” replied Madesus wearily.

‘The Mutare are not flesh, and it is said that they have no blood to spill. The enemy—our enemy—of your king is female, a priestess. This much I know, but I know not where she is. All I have are clues and shadows to chase, but I assure you, I will find her.” His words were spoken in a tone of iron resolve.

“Now that the general is dead, why would she bother to keep her bargain with him?” Conan asked.

“The Mutare need no reason to kill,” replied Madesus. “But the king would die without any further effort from her. The death spell she has woven is very old, and very powerful. Your king will be out of danger only when she is destroyed. Our Order has knowledge of these spells, and I have sensed the presence of such a spell here. The Mutare made a pact with a Demon Lord, offering the soul of a mortal—most likely a blood relation of the king’s.”

Kailash’s eyes narrowed at this statement, and he paled visibly. “The princess! Her body was found, just before the king was taken sick!”

“As I feared,” Madesus said gravely. “The Demon Lord will keep sending formless servants of darkness to rend the king’s soul. The blood of the king’s daughter has opened a gateway leading from the abyss to the king. Only through the destruction of the Mutare can the gateway be closed. The pact between the priestess and the Demon Lord will be dissolved when she is gone.”

“How can she be slain?” Kailash burst out in frustration. “You said that not even ten thousand swords could harm her. Is she invincible, then?”

“Be not so quick to despair, hillman. The Mutare priestess is an enemy of Mitra, whose powers are as limitless as the heavens above. By his will, the amulet I bear will accomplish what ten thousand swords cannot. There were many ancient objects of power, enchanted with spells deadly to the Mutare. Most of them are lost or destroyed; our Order has preserved a few others. On the morrow, I will find her. Yet I cannot face her alone. I need your help and your swords to win this battle.

While I bear the amulet, there is nothing she can do directly to harm me, but she is sure to have allies of flesh and blood, against whom the amulet is powerless. The traitorous Valtresca was only one of her minions. There is little doubt that more blood will spill before we reach her. I only pray it will not be ours!”

“My oath to Salvorus binds me,” Conan interjected grimly. “Until the king is out of danger, I will come with you, and let no man stand in our way.”

“I will go with you also,” Kailash said solemnly. “I owe Eldran my life a dozen times over. He is my friend, and my king. ‘Tis time I repay my debt to him. Within the hour, we will have a thousand men-at-arms to—”

“No, Kailash,” Madesus broke in, shaking his head. “As skilled as your warriors are, their numbers would only hinder us. To be certain of victory, we must catch the priestess unawares. If she has time to prepare for us, the consequences will be dire indeed. She would easily detect the approach of so many, as the Mutare have keen senses, sharper and farther-reaching than those of man. Only the three of us know of her existence; let us keep this secret among ourselves. Tell no one, no matter how certain you are of their trustworthiness.”

“Very well, then. Just the three of us it will be. How will you find the lair of this harlot of darkness?” Kailash’s eyes burned with his desire for vengeance.

“Nothing more can we do until tomorrow,” Madesus replied. “Make whatever preparations you deem necessary. Conan, I have just enough energy left to tend your wounds, then I must return to the temple to retrieve my belongings. We must all rest before we begin this task. We shall need as much endurance and awareness as we can muster to overcome the mendacities awaiting us.”

Conan began to object, but Madesus stubbornly refused to leave without seeing to the more serious of the Cimmerian’s injuries. The barbarian sat impatiently upon a dais near the one the king lay upon, while the healer went about his business. At some point during the ministrations, Conan’s eyes began to close and his head slumped down upon his massive chest as sleep overcame him.

“Leave him where he is,” Madesus whispered to Kailash. “Do not disturb him; he will awaken when his body is ready. I have set the healing in motion, and his own powers of recovery are astonishing. Healers must seldom be needed in his homeland, if they are to be found anywhere in Cimmeria at all.”

Madesus followed Kailash out of the king’s chamber. “I will return soon from the temple and sleep here, in this outer chamber. Admit no one but the most trusted of men into the outer chamber, and admit no one at all into the inner chamber! By the will and mercy of the Holy Father Mitra, this will all be over before nightfall tomorrow.”

“Aye,” Kailash agreed, “by the will of Mitra, let it be so! Shall I send a man to accompany you to the temple?”

“‘Tis only a short journey, and I need no help in carrying what few possessions I left there. I shall return within the hour.”

Without another word, Madesus passed through the copper doors and left the palace, while several curious hillmen watched. They looked questioningly at Kailash, who shook his head in response. Drawing his sword and seating himself on a wooden bench, he began a minute inspection of his blade. From a travel-worn black leather pack, laying on the bench next to him, he withdrew a sharpening stone and set to work, Kailash found this blade-work helpful when he needed to resolve difficult problems. Valtresca, a traitor! The king had trusted his general. The politics of the Brythunian nobility had always befuddled Kailash, who was born in the north-eastern mountains and raised by hill people, as King Eldran had been. He had always considered politics to be the refuge of the weak or the deceitful, but Eldran, ever the smarter of the two, had eventually convinced him otherwise.

Yet it was politics, Kailash supposed, that were partially to blame for the series of events leading to the murder of the princess and the near death of the king. How long had Valtresca’s resentment of Eldran festered before his plot to destroy the king had been thwarted by Conan and Madesus? What if there were other traitors lurking in the palace, waiting for their chance to strike? The very idea made his blood run cold. But Kailash thought it unlikely that there were any other traitors. The remaining palace guards and staff were completely loyal to Eldran, such was the influence the king had on his people. Never had a Brythunian king come so close to uniting the quarrelling factions of the country, while keeping the poaching kings of Nemedia and Corinthia at bay.

Of course there were those who resented Eldran’s success. Several old royal families from the southern lands of Brythunia did not acknowledge Eldran’s authority, although they made no protest over his claims to other regions of Brythunia. Many of these publicly objected that Eldran was not descended of a royal bloodline. Valtresca would have had supporters from these families. Kailash shuddered to think that if Eldran had died already, the general’s evil plot would never have been discovered. Were it not for the actions of Conan and Madesus, Valtresca might well be on the throne.

Kailash began to wonder about the Cimmerian warrior, and his unlikely ally, a powerful priest of Mitra—who claimed not to be a true priest!

The hillmen had heard tales of Cimmerians, fierce barbarians from the frozen north. Their legendary sack of the Aquilonian stronghold at Venarium, which Conan might even have been a part of, was the stuff of civilized soldiers’ nightmares. Kailash had always pictured Cimmerians as pale-skinned, grim-faced, dark-haired giants, more like animals than men. Conan did not fit this picture, although Kailash had a healthy respect for his obvious prowess. The hillman doubted that any of his men could best Conan in a fight, not with any weapon. In the past few days, the Cimmerian had filled the city’s burial ground with the bodies of many guardsmen. Kailash actually found himself looking forward to fighting side by side with such a great warrior.

Kailash’s understanding of Madesus was much less clear. Never had he seen such power wielded, though he had heard stories of sorcerers and priests with ensorcelled amulets and the like. The hillmen were a superstitious folk. In his youth, he had spent many an evening around camp fires, listening to greybeard's stories of bewitchment, hauntings, and unearthly wizardry. At first he believed that these tales were designed to scare him, but in the years since, he had seen evidence supporting many of the stories. Priestly and wizardry matters were beyond his understanding, and he had been taught to fear the unknown.

Even Madesus had put him on edge.

In any case, the king had been healthier after the healer’s assistance.

The other priests and healers had been powerless to ease the king’s pain. Still, Kailash did not fully trust Madesus; he believed that the healer cared more about destroying the Mutare priestess than he did about saving Eldran. In either case, they were all working toward common goals. Kailash would continue to show nothing but enthusiasm for the task.

He wondered what they thought of him. To the casual observer, he was nothing more than another battle-hungry, dull-witted hillman. In the past, this assumption had been the downfall of many an enemy. As his father had said, a man will learn more by keeping his eyes and ears open than he will learn by keeping his mouth open.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a gentle knock on the chamber doors. He put his sharpening stone back into his pack and stood up while the hillmen went to the door. Could Madesus be back so soon?

Puzzled, he waited for the door to open.

Behind it stood Lamici, the chief eunuch, in silk robes. “I apologize for this intrusion, Kailash,” he said softly. His voice was trembling slightly, and he looked somewhat rumpled, as if he had just been roused from his slumber. “One of the guards was saying that Valtresca had been slain, after revealing himself to be a traitor!”

“Yes,” said Kailash absently. “Conan slew him, after the general murdered Salvorus. The barbarian and the priest Madesus exposed the traitor.”

“Shocking! One of the king’s oldest friends, a traitor to the throne.”

Lamici feigned surprise, but nervously wondered if his own treachery had also been discovered. “Did anyone speak to Valtresca before he died?”

“Only the barbarian. According to the priest, the general was a pawn of a greater evil, a priestess of an ancient and evil cult called Mutare.

This priestess, for reasons not known to us, wove a spell of death about Eldran. Were it not for Madesus, the king might now be dead.”

Lamici was relieved that he had not been discovered. However, their knowledge of Azora’s involvement disturbed him. How could a simple priest of Mitra know of her? Azora had told him that no priest would be able to save the king once her spell was complete. Still, it mattered little now. With Valtresca dead, Lamici’s hopes to restore the glory of the Brythunian throne were shattered. The meddlesome barbarian and priest would pay for this outrage! Azora would crush them like bugs. He had to bring her this news, as quickly as possible. But first he would find out what Kailash knew; obviously, the Kezankian bumpkin still trusted him.

“A Mutare? This evil harlot of darkness still lives, or was she slain, too?” he asked.

“Nay, the priest knows not where to find this sorceress, but he said he would track and destroy her. He is powerful, Lamici, not like any priest I have ever known. He bears an amulet that harnesses great magical forces. Conan and I are going with him soon, to help him find the priestess and destroy her. She and Madesus must be enemies of old.”

“Did they meet before? How did he know of her?” Lamici was now deeply worried. If the priest was not eliminated quickly, Lamici’s dealings with Azora might be discovered.

“He did not say if they had met, but he knew she was nearby. He has an uncanny air about him, Lamici. He could somehow sense her presence; how, he would not explain. I know not what Conan and I can do against the Mutare, but Madesus asked us to accompany him, and I owe a great debt to him.”

“Indeed, we all do,” said Lamici, smiling. “If I may say, the guardsmen were wondering who would take Valtresca’s place as general. If I may be so bold, let me say that none is better suited or more loved by the people than you, Kailash.”

Kailash paused for a moment, as this thought had not occurred to him.

He had never put himself in the role of general, but with Salvorus also dead, and the other captains away from the palace, there was no other successor around. Kailash was irritated that he had not thought of this; his mind had been occupied solely with the threat to the king’s life. Eldran had always told him that the safety of a king’s subjects was far more important than the safety of the king himself.

“The king will soon be well enough to choose his own general,” Kailash said after thinking it over. “I made a promise to the priest, and must fulfil it before I do aught else.”

Lamici nodded. “Of course you are right,” he said. “I will make the necessary arrangements to remove the general’s body, and see to the repairs and cleaning of the dungeon. When do you leave?”

“Within the hour. Whenever the priest returns from the temple. Lamici, tell no one of this. We cannot take the chance that traitorous ears may hear us.”

“For three generations have the eunuchs served the royal family,”

Lamici said reassuringly. “Your secret is safe with me. May the gods be with you all.” He bowed and bid the hillman good-bye.

Moving as quickly as he could, Lamici went to his chambers. From his hiding place, he withdrew a needle-pointed dagger that bore a thin groove along the full length of its gleaming blade. Very carefully, he opened a small jar and picked up a brush laying alongside it, dipping the brush into the jar. His nose recoiled from the stink of the vessel’s contents. He carefully dabbed the brush along the dagger’s groove, filling it with the orange, sap-like liquid, then closed the jar and returned it to its secret place beside the brush.

He pulled back his right sleeve, revealing a thin sheath strapped to the underside of his forearm. His hairless head shone with sweat as he slowly sheathed the blade. He had seen what even one drop of the jar’s deadly contents would do to a man, just by touching his skin. He had taken the jar from a Vendhyan assassin, who was caught trying to poison the king. The man, posing as a Vendhyan ambassador negotiating a trade agreement, had been hired by rival nobility of Brythunia. The assassin had coated a tiny dart with the poison and fired it at the king from across the room. At that moment, a gust of wind had blown into the open palace windows and diverted the dart’s flight. It had struck a hillman on the arm, but had not pierced the skin. Nonetheless, the man had gripped his arm and fallen to the floor, howling in agony and convulsing. Foam had begun to drip from his mouth before he died. The only mark on his body had been a tiny, thin welt on his arm.

Lamici’s mouth curved into a smile at this memory. Such a death was fitting for the meddlesome priest who had ruined Lamici’s plans.

Madesus would die foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. The eunuch slid the blade the rest of the way into the hidden sheath and donned a hooded cloak, then slipped out into the ebbing darkness of the Brythunian dawn.

X

Shadow and Stone

Madesus reached the temple as the sun rose over the eastern wall of the city, brightening the dull, ivory-coloured temple walls with its warming glow. He stopped halfway up the steps to the huge main doors. As if the sun had awakened his memory, he suddenly remembered the location of the building he had seen in his dream, and in the magical pool created by Kaletos.

The city was filled with old buildings, but the oldest of them lay just west of the palace. He had passed by them many times since his arrival in the city; some structures were in crumbling ruins, others had weathered the years well. He was certain that the building they sought had once been a temple. He had not recognized the pantheon; there were strange and ancient carvings on its side.

In the dream and in the pool, the carvings had stood out in crisp detail, as if newly sculpted. In reality, years of weather would have nearly smoothed the carvings from the walls; only the deepest markings would have remained. Perhaps the dream had shown the building as it was centuries ago. Such was not uncommon in mystical scrying. Why had he not sensed the evil that must lurk behind those carvings, within the walls of the building? Mayhap the place itself cloaked the Mutare, and had been chosen for this purpose.

Madesus continued up the steps with new-found urgency. Now was the time to strike against the evil. In the daylight, even blocked by stone walls, the Mutare’s powers would be weaker. The bright sun was an omen that Mitra was with him today.

Feeling more confident of his chance of defeating the Mutare, Madesus entered the temple and gathered his possessions. He had no time to speak with Kaletos again; he knew that he must return immediately to the palace, where Conan and Kailash waited. He left a few pieces of silver in his Spartan room for the temple’s coffers, and departed hastily.

The streets were crowded on his way back to the palace, as the city went about its morning business. News of the king’s renewed health had spread, and many of the townspeople were in better spirits. Little did these people know that with the Mutare in their midst, they were as lambs with a wolf in the fold. The priest shouldered his way through the crowd, finally reaching the palace gates.

At the gate, the guards quickly recognized him, bowing as he passed through. Minutes later, he rejoined Kailash in the king’s outer chambers. Conan had risen only moments before, feeling bruised but no longer exhausted. He had borrowed rugged garb from one of the larger hillmen: leggings of sturdy green cloth, and a long-sleeved, lined tunic with dark leather lacing up the front. He had retrieved his straight, broad-bladed western sword, now hanging unscabbarded from his wide, thick leather belt. Underneath the tunic he still wore his torn leather vest, and on his feet were thick-soled sandals. Overall, his clothing reflected a strange mix of east and west, but his eyes and build were unmistakably those of the western barbarian.

Kailash greeted Madesus and slung his black leather pack over his broad back. His gear was similar to Conan’s, except for his curved sword, heavy black boots, and thick iron cap. “We need no rest,” he said grimly to the priest. “If you know where this priestess is, we will follow you there now.” Conan nodded, dropping his scarred hand to the hilt of his sword in affirmation.

“Truly, Mitra is with us,” said Madesus. He had misgivings about plunging ahead unrested, but he was far from weary. “At sunrise today, the location of the Mutare’s lair became clear to me. I am now certain that she is in one of the old temple buildings in the ruined section of the city.”

Kailash was startled by this. “The ruins? An entire patrol constantly guards those buildings, to keep out undesirables. Superstition and fear keep nearly everyone else away. Many of those structures are haunted, or cursed. The city was built around those ruins, but no man knew who had dwelt there. In the early history of the city, many brave men, exploring the buildings, died from unexplained accidents.”

Madesus nodded, unsurprised. “This sort of place would be ideal for a Mutare. As for the guards, they would be more likely to sense the passing of a gentle breeze than the passing of a Mutare. The Mutare are masters of stealth and guile; you could pass by the priestess on the street and take no notice of her. Know you aught else of these buildings, Kailash?”

The burly hillman shook his head. “Nay, they are a mystery even to the longest-bearded of our lore-masters. I have the feeling that we are about to find out more than I care to know!”

Conan interrupted brusquely. “Let us go, then! I would soon make good on my oath to Salvorus, before our beards grow as long as your lore master’s.” He strode toward the polished copper doors, flinging them open with little exertion. Kailash laughed gustily and followed, with Madesus at his side.

The priest directed Conan to the ruins, near the centre of the city. A short wall had been raised around the old structures and was crumbling in a few places along the street that ran alongside it. Even in the morning sun, the, ruins were a somewhat gloomy place. Several tall buildings, still intact, cast long shadows over the street; many of the lower buildings were cloaked so that the sunlight never even touched their stone walls. The style of construction was foreign in all of Brythunia.

Some unnameable aspect of the place set Conan’s nerves on edge.

Kailash’s tale of the hauntings and deaths had sparked the barbarian’s instinctive dread of the supernatural. He was determined to be wary in this place. Reflexively, he freed his blade and carried it openly.

Kailash quickly followed suit. Only Madesus remained calm, undisturbed by the shadows and the tales of ancient curses.

The patrol of guardsmen detected their presence quickly, and were sent on their way by Kailash. The street became very quiet as the sounds of the patrol’s retreating boots on the hard stone pavement faded in the distance. The sigmoidal street curved around the ruins. In a quarter of an hour, the three men had travelled halfway along its length. Madesus called a halt to examine one of the buildings.

It stood back less than sixty paces, beyond a large crack in the short stone wall. A tall tower with a crumbling turret stood next to it, almost completely shielding the old temple from the sunlight. One corner was visible from the street. Its decaying stonework and shape indicated its origin, older than the reckoning of venerable sages. Its weathered grey walls were not menacing, and what remained of the stone carvings was too faint to identify which deity the temple’s worshippers had paid homage to.

Madesus studied the building, then pointed it out to Conan and Kailash.

The Cimmerian passed through the crack in the wall. It was so short that it did not even rise to the level of his shoulders. He scanned the nearby buildings carefully, but saw nothing out of place. He gestured to Kailash and Madesus, who came forward.

In a barely audible voice, Madesus spoke to the two men. “If you must speak, do so only in the faintest of whispers. Once we reach the building, let me lead. If we find the priestess, do not look her in her eyes. The temptation will be strong, but if you succumb, you will find those eyes as deadly as the fangs of a venomous serpent. With the amulet, I will shield us all with what protection I can.”

Conan nodded. “How will you destroy her?”

“With the amulet. Its light, of which you have seen only a glimmer, will dissolve her like fog in the morning sunlight. Your blades might cleave her flesh, but she has no life blood in her veins for you to spill. It was written that only a Mutare with living blood in its veins may be slain by steel. This is a riddle, since by nature, the Mutare have no living blood in their veins.

“Against the light, she has no choice but to flee. If she flees, you must try to stop her. She can be held, though in holding her, you may be wounded, or even killed. If she tries to touch me, the amulet will repel her. This is why I must lead. If we can trap her, she will be doomed. We cannot allow her to escape!”

Kailash gritted his teeth and cursed under his breath. “A plague on these creatures! I would as soon confront a Turanian horde bare-handed than walk blindly into the den of this lioness, knowing I can do nothing against her.”

Conan grunted in agreement, knowing exactly how the hillman felt.

Madesus followed the two men to the temple as they trod upon the remains of an old path that led to a large stone door. Conan circled the building, noting that it had five irregularly sized walls, not four as he had at first thought. Five long, low steps led up to the large door, the only visible entrance. Closer inspection revealed why this building had lasted so long; its walls and steps were made of hard grey marble. The elements had worn the stone to a dull finish, but only a few chips and cracks had worked their way into the tough rock.

Conan gestured toward the door, and Madesus nodded. The Cimmerian moved quietly up the steps, scrutinizing the huge stone portal. He examined it with puzzlement, noting that there were no handles. It was half again his height, more than ten feet tall, and nearly as wide. The temple itself was short; its roof was only a few feet from the top of the door. Conan began hunting for a way inside.

Kailash joined Conan while Madesus stood by, looking around. Even on the building’s doorstep, the priest could not feel the Mutare’s presence. He concentrated, trying to pick up any trace of the evil, but the effort was fruitless. He began to wonder if this was the right building, or if the pool and his dreams had somehow misled him. Then he brushed the doubts aside. This had to be the place. Some forgotten art had imbued the very stone with the power to block his sight.

After several minutes of thorough searching, Conan and Kailash had found no way to open the door. Conan was ready to put his shoulder to it and force it, but as he opened his mouth to speak, a loud click issued from the top step to the left of the door, followed by a low, grating noise as the portal opened. Conan could see a narrow track in the floor beneath the door, along which the marble door was sliding to the right. Behind it, he could see a huge bronze handle set in the stone, protruding from the back of the door.

Instantly alerted, Kailash darted to one side, readying his sword and putting his back to the outer wall. Conan did likewise, moving to the other side. Madesus reached into his tunic, lifting out his amulet and wrapping the chain around his hand. Now he sensed her presence, faint but definite, wafting out of the open doorway like a far-off scent of decay. Steeling himself, he peered into the shadowy darkness beyond the slowly opening portal.

In the dim light, he saw a spacious inner chamber, a veritable auditorium running the entire length and breadth of the building.

Opposite the door, where two of the walls joined, was a large, oddly shaped block of stone; Madesus supposed it was an altar of some sort.

Rows of unusually shaped stone benches rose from the floor between the door and the block. Their backs were very high, made of bronze wrought into strange designs, and set directly into the stone benches. Aside from more carvings on the walls, there were no other features in the room. The inner arrangement left little doubt that it was indeed a temple. Madesus squinted at the carvings, trying to make them out, but the light was too poor. Drawing in his breath, he stepped across the threshold into the temple.

Conan and Kailash followed, but Conan was still trying to determine what had caused the door to open. The step where the click had come from was depressed slightly, as if stepped on, but the Cimmerian was certain that neither he nor Kailash had done so. His mind continued to work on this puzzle as he stood behind the priest, looking around. The high ceiling was darker than the skin of a Kushite, and the benches squatted menacingly, like short beasts of bronze and stone, ready to strike at anything within their reach. He looked over at Kailash, whose brow was already beaded with nervous sweat. Conan’s own keen senses told him also that danger lurked here.

As the three men studied the auditorium, Conan heard another click from the top step outside. He whirled to face the door, watching with astonishment as it began sliding shut. Grasping one of the ornamental bronze backs attached to a bench, he wrenched it free. Kailash spun around and dashed toward the door, reaching for the bronze handle with his free hand. He got there before Conan and grasped the handle, pulling it back in a desperate effort to keep the door open.

Unfortunately, he was outweighed by the massive portal, which slowed only a little from his efforts.

Conan jammed his chunk of bronze into the path of the closing door.

Ancient metal groaned from the pressure, bending with a metallic screech. The door continued to slow down with only a few hand-spans of open space left. The barbarian placed his foot against the door jamb and wrapped his open hand around the bronze handle, trying to help Kailash pull the door back open. The combined might of hillman and Cimmerian was more than the aged bronze could bear. The handle snapped off the door with a loud crack. Kailash held it in his hand, looking at it and cursing.

Conan tried to force the door back by pushing directly against its stone edge. He heaved against it, muscles knotting from the effort.

Kailash threw his weight into it, straining and sweating. The door closed with a stony thud. They gave up, leaning back against the temple wall, gasping for breath from the exertion. Madesus shrugged, untroubled that they were shut inside the temple, with no way out.

“Save your strength,” he said in a tone of grim determination. “We may be trapped, but if we are, so is she. No doubt there is a trick to opening the door. If we search long enough, we will find it. We must find her instead. I sense her presence faintly, so she must be nearby.

There must be another exit or doorway somewhere. Let us seek it!”

“I’ll look along this wall, Kai—” Conan began, but Madesus quickly cut him off.

“Hush! Do not speak his name, or any of our names! If she can hear us, she will use our names against us. Your name forms an invisible link to you; it opens a chink in the psychic armour that protects your mind from her insidious spells.”

Kailash and Conan looked at the priest quizzically, but Madesus was in no mood to explain this strange statement further. The priest spoke a few soft words in a strange tongue, and the amulet in his hand flared up brightly, illuminating the room. Conan moved along one wall, while Kailash took another. They found nothing along the walls, and simultaneously they reached the stone block. Madesus walked between the rows of benches, heading straight for the block.

As he neared it, he identified it as an altar to Targol, an obscure and strange god with even stranger worshippers. As far as Madesus knew, the Targolian religion had not existed for over five centuries. Targol had been described as a harsh, cruel god, demanding much from his followers and giving little in return. In spite of this, the priesthood of Targol had once been a powerful force, albeit a neutral one, indifferent to current events and politics. Yet Madesus recalled a tale of what had happened in ancient Zamboula to the priests of Yog, who had tried to ban the worship of Targol in their city. One by one they had disappeared without a trace, until none remained. Later, their fully clothed skeletons had been found heaped in a pit.

Madesus examined the altar, momentarily distracted by his curiosity about the Targolian religion. He brushed at a layer of fine dust covering some faint runes etched in the altar. Moments later, a drowsy feeling settled over him; he found concentration difficult. The light from his amulet began to dim, and he blinked, trying to focus his eyes on Conan and Kailash and tell them about Targol. Kailash was standing to the right of the altar, near Madesus, frozen in place with a glassy stare. Madesus tried to move toward the hillman and awaken him, but his feet felt like leaden bricks. The priest realized that he and Kailash were paralysed.

Conan had begun searching the stone block, which rose to waist level on him. It was oblong and five-sided, like much of the temple’s architecture. He noticed a pattern of curving scrape marks on the floor by the base of the block. He was about to tell his companions of this when a wave of exhaustion rolled over him. The Cimmerian shook his head to clear the haze, and yawned. Even after this, he felt unnaturally tired, so he rubbed his face. The room darkened… no, it was Madesus’s amulet dimming. He thought about leaning against the block and resting briefly. When was the last time he had slept? It felt like days ago, or weeks. He slumped against the block, his sword slipping from his gasp.

The razor-sharp blade clanged against the altar and nicked his calf on its way down. Conan’s mind cleared instantly as a thin trickle of blood ran down his shin. His heart pounded at the sight of Madesus and Kailash, slumped against the altar. They were dozing with glazed, open eyes that stared with an eerie blankness. The amulet still dangled from Madesus’s hand, but its light had faded to an almost imperceptible glow. Instantly alerted, Conan picked up his sword and moved over to Madesus, shaking him. The priest would not awaken; his lips moved, but no sound came forth.

Deciding on his course of action quickly, Conan used his blade to cut carefully along Madesus’s exposed forearm, until blood welled out of it. The priest quickly woke up, startled, and his amulet brightened.

The Cimmerian strode purposefully toward Kailash, pulled back his sleeve, and made a small cut along the hillman’s arm. Kailash, still holding on to his sword somehow, jerked and took a swing at Conan, who deftly ducked the blade as Kailash gathered his wits and checked his motion.

“What in the name of Wiccana—” the hillman blurted out, then got a grip on himself. “What happened to us?”

Madesus’s face tightened in anger. “Already she is toying with us. Oh, this one is crafty, more dangerous than I thought.” He let out a low chuckle, then pointed to a fine layer of dust surrounding the altar.

The dust was now disturbed in several places. Madesus held up his hands, still chuckling. “Look at your hands.”

Conan and Kailash opened their palms and examined them, their eyes widening in surprise at the light purple stains that covered them.

“Powder from the blossoms of the purple lotus,” said Madesus softly, as he looked at his own palms. “Just a thin layer, not enough for us to detect, but enough to send us into a drugged, sleepy paralysis. Have a care not to touch the altar again. I wonder, what fate did she have in store for us while we slept? Fortunate that we did not get more of the dust on us, or the lotus-spell would have resisted the sword-cuts.”

“Look here,” Conan said, pointing at the scrape marks he had seen earlier.

Kailash studied the marks. “This stone swings open, in the same direction as those curves. If you push against it from the other side, it may just slide aside.”

Madesus held his amulet close to the altar, moving it around so as to cast a more direct light.

“Why not make it as bright as you did in Eldran’s chambers?” Kailash asked.’

“Already I have used a great deal of energy today, for the healing. As even you could not carry a sackful of heavy stones over your head for hours, I cannot keep the amulet so bright for hours. Wait—look at the bottom corner.” Madesus pointed down, by Conan’s foot.

Conan bent and squinted, then he saw it. A small corner at the base of the altar was conspicuously bare of the purple lotus dust. He was about to press against it, but Kailash halted him.

“Hold a moment,” the hillman said, thrusting his sword into his belt and rummaging through his leather pack. “Here. Let me try.” He extracted a pair of thick leather gloves from the pack and pulled them on. Conan stood aside as Kailash reached down and pushed against the corner. The altar slid aside easily, as though well oiled, making only a faint grating sound against the hard stone floor. Beneath it, a dark shaft plunged into the floor, with steep stone steps leading down.

Madesus moved his amulet over the dark pit, while Kailash peered down into the shaft, craning his neck for a better view. “The stairs lead down as far as I can see—ugh!” A reeking stench of decay washed over his nose, causing him to gag. It was worse than the sickly sweet odour of rotting carcasses strewn thickly about a sun-baked battlefield.

Kailash pulled back to exhale.

As strong as the smell was, Madesus was struck more by the increasing feel of evil. It was so overpowering that he felt he could almost touch it in the air about him. “She is down there,” he said.

Kailash lowered himself to descend, pausing to plant his feet squarely on the steps. Madesus continued holding the amulet over him, illuminating the stairway. The Kezankian stood on the first step, his body visible from the knees up, then proceeded carefully. Soon he was at shoulder level with the edges of the pit, only his head and shoulders visible from above. At that moment, Conan heard a barely audible click from somewhere under the floor, near the base of the altar. Before he could yell a warning, a finely honed, gleaming metal blade swept out across the opening of the shaft, aiming straight at Kailash’s exposed neck.

The hillman’s battle-sharpened reflexes and iron cap saved him. He ducked into the shaft, almost beneath the blade, which bit deeply into the forge-hardened iron of his helm and struck it from Kailash’s head.

The blade, designed to reset in the base, jammed on the helm and snapped off. A foot-long piece of metal jutted from the cap. Kailash looked at it in horror, blood rushing in his ears from his close brush with death. He pounded the cap against the stone until the blade popped loose, then set the cap back on his head.

“Mitra take this accursed place!” A stream of even more colourful curses issued from him before Conan and Madesus could urge him to move on.

Conan was taking no chances. Ripping another piece of bronze loose from the bench, he wedged it between the altar and the floor to prevent the block from swinging closed. Madesus went behind Kailash into the shaft, to keep the light in the centre. Conan followed closely, his nostrils wrinkling at the pungent stench.

Madesus fished a small philtre out of his belt pouch and shook some powder from it. The smell cleared, and Conan felt somehow refreshed just by breathing the powder. The clean smell travelled with them as they descended further into the tunnel. The stairs went on for several dozen paces, spiralling straight down and slightly to the left. The ceiling was high; even Conan did not have to hunch forward.

At the bottom of the stairs, the corridor took on an entirely new appearance. A thick red carpet, woven with strange patterns, covered the grey stone floor; torches of black iron hung along the walls. They did not burn, but radiated a peculiar light nonetheless, giving the passage a greenish cast. Madesus called them to a halt when Kailash reached the bottom stair.

“Targolian torches,” he murmured, gesturing at the walls. “Many have sought the secret of their making, but the art is lost. They burn without heat and last for centuries before winking out. Incredible that these are still lit.”

Kailash prodded the carpet with his sword, expecting another trap of some kind. This time, nothing happened. He breathed a sigh of relief and stepped onto the carpet. Madesus and Conan followed, spreading out in the wide corridor. The priest took the lead, with Kailash and Conan an arm’s length behind him. The deep pile of the carpet cloaked the sounds of their footfalls as they walked carefully down the winding passage.

The walls were simple and unadorned, with torches spaced two or three paces apart on either side. Madesus bent down and perused the carpet, suppressing a shudder at what he found. The evenly woven fibres were actually human hair, the variance in shades of red accounting for the pattern. He kept this to himself, deeming it unnecessary to disclose this unpleasant detail to Conan and Kailash.

Conan counted the torches along the wall, trying to estimate how far they had gone. He found the green glow unsettling, and being underground in this tunnel reminded him of his recent encounter with the hideous beast in the sewers. His eyes flickered back and forth, and he frequently glanced over his shoulder, just to be certain that nothing was creeping up from behind. The silence in the corridor unnerved him, and he reckoned that the plush carpet would muffle the sound of anyone approaching unbeknownst.

Kailash was more uneasy than Conan. Unlike the barbarian, he had little experience in this sort of situation. Although he was easily a dozen years older than the Cimmerian, he had seen fewer battles and had seldom travelled beyond the borders of his native Brythunia. Nervously, he rubbed his neck and silently thanked Mitra for sparing it. He envied Conan’s apparent calm; in an effort to appear as composed as the Cimmerian, he steeled himself and wiped the sheen of sweat from his face with the sleeve of his tunic. The corridor was not at all warm, but another bead of sweat rolled down his nose before falling soundlessly to the carpet.

Conan had counted fewer than thirty torches when Madesus paused, holding his hand up to signal a stop, but not looking back. Conan could see nothing, and wondered why the priest had halted.

“May Mitra guard our souls from the evil that awaits us,” the priest whispered. “Around that bend—” he pointed to the far end of the corridor, which took a sharp turn to the right “—her presence is so strong that every bone in my body cries out from the chill of her decadent malice. She has most likely detected our intrusion, for she can sense my nearness just as I sense hers. Remember, do not let her escape!”

Conan breathed out, forcing himself to relax and be loose, ready for whatever was to come next. Madesus gripped his amulet firmly, while Kailash raised his sword. After what seemed an eternity, they reached the bend in the passage. In the next few moments, events became a simultaneous blur.

First, the three stared dumbfounded at what they saw around the bend.

Hoping and yet dreading to find the priestess, they instead saw a huge bronze double door, filling the corridor and appearing more impervious than the gates of a fortress. Next, they heard a muffled thud several paces behind them. Conan glanced over his shoulder and saw with dismay that a heavy bronze portcullis had slammed down, barring their retreat.

The sturdy bronze bars were twice the thickness of his thumbs, and much less pitted and tarnished than the bronze backs of the benches in the temple above.

As Conan glanced over his shoulder, he felt an unpleasant dampness on the sides of his sandalled feet, and a familiar, pungent odour assaulted his nostrils. After watching the portcullis cut off their retreat, he looked down. Rising up through the carpet, filling the entire corridor, was a warm flood of crimson: thick, coppery human blood.

Kailash bellowed in terror at the sight, making a futile attempt to shake the red droplets from his boots, then regaining his composure.

Conan fought back the overpowering urge to retch. Desperately, he racked his brain for a way out of their horrifying predicament. The sanguine tide had already risen above his ankles; it felt grotesquely warm and sticky against his exposed flesh.

The Cimmerian could tell that in a matter of minutes, the flow of crimson would rise above their heads, drowning them in its suffocating warmth.

XI

The Crimson Corridor

“Die, fools! Your puny swords and snivelling gods cannot save you now!” Azora cackled wickedly to herself. Through her Augur, she watched the corridor beneath Targol’s temple fill with blood. The Augur was an orb no larger than an apple, but powerful enough to display images of events occurring thousands of leagues distant. Many years ago, she had stolen the instrument from a Stygian necromancer. The arrogant, self-centred dotard had believed that only he was powerful enough to evoke its magic.

At present, Azora had focused it on the events taking place in the corridor outside of her former altar room. Her red eyes glinted with cruel gratification as she watched the three doomed men, struggling to free themselves from her trap. Fear and despair flowed from them; she soaked it up like rainwater on hot desert sand.

Before her three victims had reached the temple, Lamici had paid her a visit. At first she had been livid over his unbidden arrival, but as he related the events that had transpired, her anger had dissipated. She had already been forewarned of the priest’s presence; his interference with her invocation of death had revealed his nearness to her, like a bonfire blazing in the night sky.

Her awareness of him had awakened an ancient hatred in her. His kind was stronger than most bumbling, cowardly half-wits who constituted the laughable priesthood of Mitra. She had not known that any of his Order still existed, but she had quickly resolved to crush this one. At first she had not known his name. She could only see him and feel him, since the Augur conveyed no sounds to its bearer.

Fortunately, the unscrupulous Lamici had told her their names, and of their simplistic plan to challenge her. The eunuch amused her; he was refreshingly corrupt for a human. Earlier, she had planned a slow, agonizing death for him, eagerly anticipating the pain and fear she would wring from his dying body. Now she supposed that in gratitude for his services, she would kill him quickly when he had outlived his usefulness.

When Azbra had learned of Madesus’s intentions, she had quickly conceived a scheme to ensnare the unsuspecting priest, and the ineffectual dolts who accompanied him out of misguided loyalty. Honour and loyalty were the refuge of slack-witted weaklings.

She watched the image in the Augur with amusement. Balberoth, the Demon Lord she had bidden to carry out her lethal scheme, had done so with a delightfully hellish ingenuity. She would have to use him in the future, to entertain her with the deaths of others who sought to defy her.

Even if the slow-witted blunderers had gotten past the bronze doors, they would have found nothing. Azora was now far, far away from the temple. She was confident of her ability to destroy Madesus, but she had no time to waste in doing so personally. After making her pact with the Demon Lord, she had begun the rite of translocation. The pathetic city of Pirogia and the mindless human insects who infested it had begun to bore her, anyway. Her business there was nearly concluded.

There was one more secret she sought, a secret that would make her invincible. Already she was powerful, but she was irked by the thought that an insignificant priest and a thick-skulled barbarian had interfered with her plot to destroy the king. She needed more power, and she craved the long-lost secret of invincibility.

According to a vague passage in a dusty grimoire she had perused, this secret had been known to only one being: Skauraul. Centuries ago, he had been the most powerful of the Mutare. By piecing together information from numerous obscure and dire tomes, she had divined the location of his long-deserted stronghold. Even its memory had passed from the minds of living men, but she had found it through her Augur.

When Conan and his companions had stood upon the outer steps of the Targolian temple, Azora had completed the rite of translocation, arriving on the path leading into Skauraul’s stronghold. Once inside, she would learn Skauraul’s secret and become impervious to any contrivances of Madesus or his Order of simpletons.

Unfortunately, translocation was difficult, even for her. The rite had taken all the power she could muster; she would need several days to regain it fully. When she had recuperated and added Skauraul’s powers to her own, she would return to Pirogia and turn the city into a mass grave. The hapless dwellers there would have the honour of being among the first victims in a spree of chaos and carnage she would embark upon.

Azora now stood before the outer walls of the stronghold. Monumental gates sagged in ruins on broken hinges. All around her were the vast, impassable steppes of Shem’s parched, lifeless desert. She stepped through a huge gap in the shattered portals.

Ahead, the ancient stronghold rose from the arid wasteland like the stump of a long-dead tree. Its walls were greenish-black, sandblasted by hot, desert winds. Cracked and chipped, they stood defiantly, facing the reddish-yellow desert like silent sentries of stone. They were roughly circular, made up of eleven immense stone slabs. They tapered near the top, several hundred feet from the ground. The stronghold had no windows, and only one door: a tall, narrow portal of black iron.

Weathered stone steps led up to this door, flanked on both sides by large statues, whose only recognizable features were heads, legs, and wings; the wind had worn everything else away. Knee-high drifts of sand had piled up on the steps, where they partially blocked the door. Even the most stubborn of desert life forms had forsaken the place.

As she walked up the steps to the iron door, Azora took one last look into the Augur. She smiled cruelly at what she saw there. Tucking the orb carefully into her cloak, she pushed the black doors open and stepped within.

Beneath the Targolian temple, Madesus remained outwardly calm, but inwardly his mind was a turbulent sea of thought. “Conan!” he said urgently, ignoring his previous warning regarding the use of names, “can you bend the bars of the portcullis?”

Wordlessly, the brawny Cimmerian seized the portcullis and heaved mightily, bracing himself against the bronze doors for leverage. Sweat broke out on his furrowed brow, and his rope-like muscles bulged in knots beneath his skin. Even Conan’s superhuman strength was no match for the inch-thick bars of bronze. He released his grip, flexing his fingers to loosen them. The blood continued to fill the corridor with frightening speed; it lapped greedily at his knees.

Kailash had begun to hurl himself against the bronze doors, but he was faring no better than Conan had fared with the bars. The double doors gave slightly, but they were held securely by an oversized bronze padlock clamped around each of their outer handles.

“Madesus!” the hillman called out breathlessly. “If there is anything you can do with your amulet to get us out of this, do it now! In a few minutes, the blood will rise over our heads!”

Madesus shook his head despondently. ‘The amulet has power to heal, but-it cannot save us from this trap!”

Kailash pounded the bronze doors with his fists. “Then we are beaten!

The priestess has won!” He looked down dejectedly, where the crimson flood had crept up past his knees.

Only Conan refused to give up hope. In desperation, he pulled one of the black metal torches from its wall moorings. He reasoned that the club-like torches might be strong enough to smash the bronze padlock.

With all the force he could bring to bear, he swung the heavy torch down on the lock, striking it squarely. Stubbornly, it refused to break apart.

“Wait!” Madesus said. “Instead of trying to smash the lock, use the bar to pry it apart!” The priest’s voice had taken on an edge of anxiety; his calm demeanour was fraying as the blood crept up past his belt of rope.

Conan quickly inserted the rod of heavy black metal into the gap between the bronze hasp and the latching bar. The strange torch’s tapered end was just narrow enough to wedge into the space. Conan pulled down on the torch with a supreme effort and nearly snapped the black metal bar.

The Targolian torch proved to be stronger than the bronze lock. The hasps gave in, torn into halves of twisted bronze. Although badly bent, the black metal torch continued emitting its strange, bright green glow. Conan dropped it. Its glow faded as it sank into the blood.

The bronze doors, no longer held by the lock, were immediately pushed open by pressure from the crimson tide. Needing no urging, the three blood-soaked men dashed into the chamber beyond. Once inside, Conan and Kailash strained to shut the doors behind them and cut off the macabre crimson flow.

Madesus’s amulet flared up, illuminating the entire room. As if voicing everyone’s thoughts, Kailash groaned in dismay. Conan swore with ear-splitting force. “No exit, by Crom! We are cut off!”

Kailash struggled to keep the doors closed behind them, putting his back against the portals and digging his feet in against the floor to keep from sliding. “I cannot hold the doors closed for long,” he said through clenched teeth. “Whatever we do, we must do it soon!”

Madesus and Conan looked blankly at each other, out of ideas. They surveyed the room, searching for a way out. The chamber had five bare walls, identical except for the wall with the bronze doors.

Extinguished candles of black wax were arranged with strange symmetry along the red granite floor.

An ugly pool of blood had gushed in between the double doors before Kailash had closed them. Madesus marvelled at the fit of the doors, so exact that no blood leaked through them. It was, however, the object in the centre of the chamber that drew Madesus’s attention. He had seen a likeness of it in an ancient book of lore, from the Corinthian temple’s library.

“By Mitra! Behold the altar of the Mutare!” he exclaimed as he stared at it, horrified and yet fascinated. The altar was covered with stains of indeterminate origin. Grotesque symbols had been etched into its broad base; above it, badly rusted chains dangled, suspended from the high ceiling. Madesus noticed something familiar about the pattern of the candles, then warned the others.

“Beware of where you step in here. Hold a moment, while I extinguish the amulet’s light.” In a few seconds, the light from the amulet went out, plunging the room into total darkness.

Conan’s eyes adjusted. Then he could see a faint, glowing red line, traced around the base of the altar in the shape of a five-pointed star. A circle had been drawn through the points of the star. Ten candles had been placed along the circle, one at every point of the star, and one between each point.

“Do not cross the lines,” Madesus cautioned as he bent to examine them more closely, illuminating the room again with bright light from his amulet. Behind him, Kailash continued to struggle with the doors.

“I cannot hold these much longer,” he said, his voice showing the tremendous strain he was under. Conan moved over and joined him, grunting in surprise at the overwhelming weight pressing against the doors. Kailash evidently possessed considerable strength, to have held them shut for as long as he had.

Bracing his feet on the floor, Conan placed one hand on each door and pushed. “I’ll help,” he told Kailash. From the weight pressing against them, it felt to him as if the corridor outside was now filled to the ceiling with blood.

Madesus finished his examination of the lines, which had disappeared when the light of his amulet shone upon them. A growing feeling of doubt was gnawing at him. At first, when he had been walking through the passage, he had felt the presence of the Mutare so strongly that he was certain she was nearby. Now the feeling was fading, as if they had moved away from her… or as if she had moved away from them.

“I am a fool!” Madesus burst out. “We have been misled! Oh, she is a crafty one, this priestess.”

Conan and Kailash eyed him dubiously. “What?” Conan demanded gruffly.

“What are you saying?”

“She has fled, after luring us into this trap. I know not how she escaped, or where she has gone. Indeed, she must now be very far from here, or the feeling of her nearness would not have faded so quickly.

As I feared, she must have discovered we were after her, and laid this snare for us before absconding!”

Conan listened to the priest’s discouraging conjecture but refused to succumb to despair. He saw no way to prevent the jaws of this trap from closing upon them, but he would not give up hope while he still lived.

Their most immediate problem was keeping the doors closed against the red tide that threatened to drown them. A desperate thought crossed his mind.

“Madesus!” he called to the priest, who was still berating himself.

“That altar looks heavy enough to hold back these doors. It’s less than a dozen paces away. I must try it!”

“Wait!” the priest said warily. “You cannot move it without crossing the invisible lines. If you cross the lines, you may die.”

“I will die anyway. We are wasting time. I must move the accursed altar!” As if to confirm Conan’s statement, the doors buckled inward slightly, allowing a thin stream of blood to jet through before the two men could force the portals shut again.

Madesus nodded reluctantly, gripping his amulet tightly. He knew that the lines on the floor formed a pentagram, a magical barrier often drawn to summon a powerful creature and keep it at bay. When he stepped across the lines, Conan would open a hole in the barrier. If the Cimmerian was quick enough, he might reach the altar and push it to the doors before the creature could discover the hole and escape through it.

Kailash shifted his weight to bear the pressure of both doors, while Conan looked dubiously at the immense altar. If it was solid stone, its weight could easily be thrice that of his own. Inhaling deeply, he strode up to the altar and shoved against it with the force of a charging bull.

Madesus and Kailash watched in astonishment as the Cimmerian passed right through the altar. “What in the Nine Hells of Zandru—ungh!” Conan exclaimed as he lost his balance, falling to the floor with a resounding thump. He got up slowly, eyeing the altar suspiciously. He reached out to touch it, but his hand simply passed into it. Quickly, he snatched his hand back, rubbing it.

As Conan did so, a sudden transformation came over the phantom altar.

It began to rise off the floor like a cloud of black, oily smoke, shifting in shape until it resembled something vaguely humanoid. Its colour was a deep, impenetrable black, darker than a Khitan tar pit on a moonless night. Its body was thick at the top, tapering to a shadowy point near the floor, with long, thick arms of black smoke. Wisps of smoke extended from the arms, forming enormous three-fingered hands with long, sharp talons. A faceless head rose from its neckless body; the smoke had thinned in places to give the sinister impression of a wide, slitted mouth and two slanted eyes.

The mouth moved, issuing a deep, echoing laugh. The hollow, booming sound reverberated in the chamber. Conan instinctively began to back away from the creature. “Run!” the shadowy form said in a murky, thunderous voice dripping with malevolence. “You cannot escape me! Your souls are mine! But before I take them, I hunger for a taste of your flesh!” Moving with lightning-fast speed, the creature reached out with a huge hand and wrapped it around the Cimmerian’s neck.

Conan felt himself being lifted from the floor. He twisted and thrashed, trying to break the shape’s unearthly grip, but was baffled as his hands encountered nothing but air. His thick neck muscles were all that saved him from a crushed windpipe.

Without any apparent exertion, the creature flung him against the granite wall of the chamber like a child’s toy. He slid to the floor, dazed and filled with dread. Conan knew they faced no earthly foe, but some vile demon with unholy powers. By Crom, he longed for a foe made of flesh and blood! He hoped that the priest could do something against this beast.

Madesus regained his senses, having been momentarily overcome with surprise. At the sight of the creature, his throat had suddenly become dry, and his stomach had rolled queasily. The form before them was a shadow demon, a terrible beast from the abyss. According to legend, the shadow demons’ inhuman strength was matched only by their unquenchable appetite for human flesh. A lore-master had once told Madesus that only nine demons of shadow existed, all of them serving one master: the Demon Lord Balberoth.

Madesus raised his amulet and hastily recited verses, hoping that he correctly pronounced them. “Masquim Xul nar marratu, ia Balberoth! Ia Balberoth! Xizul absu marratu, nar marratu, ia Balberoth!”

The priest’s voice became rough and deep as the strange, unwieldy words stumbled haltingly from his tongue. The shadow demon snarled at him, started toward him, but was unable to cross the pentagram’s lines. In a clear, commanding voice, the priest said: “Begone, formless one! Return to the pit from whence you came, in the name of Almighty Mitra!”

The demon shrieked and began to disappear, becoming more and more transparent until its voice was a distant wail. Finally it faded into nothingness. Madesus breathed a sigh of relief as Conan got to his feet.

Kailash groaned and shifted his hold on the doors. Sweat was pouring off of him in rivulets, but he stood stubbornly in place. His muscles ached from the strain. “What now?” he managed to gasp.

Madesus was about to respond, when the room was engulfed in darkness.

Seconds later, the priest felt the temperature drop to an icy, bone-numbing cold. Slowly the amulet pushed away the darkness, until once again it lit up the room. All three men gaped at what had appeared in the centre of the pentagram.

Facing Madesus was a manlike being with sapphire-blue skin, clad in a high-collared cloak of metallic black fabric. He was taller than Conan by a head, but much thinner. His eyes had no pupils; they were stark white, like his thin lips. Covering his head was a short, triangular patch of silvery-white hair, with razor-edged points at the centre of his forehead and on both sides of his neck. In one hand, his long, ashen-white nails gripped a staff of crystal.

He shifted the staff to his other hand and spoke in a resonant voice.

“I greet thee, son of Xuoquelos, and thy companions from Cimmeria and Brythunia.” His accent was odd, but his tone was compelling. In spite of his bizarre appearance, Conan and Kailash took an instant liking to him. He repelled only Madesus, who recognized the blue-skinned entity right away.

“Balberoth. I should have known your shadow-demon brat would come crying to you after I chastised him.”

The priest’s attitude was outwardly confident, but doubt gnawed at him inside. The Demon Lords were among the most dangerous of all supernatural foes. Madesus knew that he did not have the power to destroy Balberoth, but he could weaken the demon and force him to retreat to his kingdom in the abyss.

“Amusing, Madesus.” Balberoth paused for effect. “Yes, I know thy name—and Conan, and Kailash.” He pronounced the names with sarcasm, which went unnoticed by all but Madesus. “Now that we are acquainted, we can relax. Let me ease thy burden, hillman.” The Demon Lord gestured with his staff, and Kailash realized that the pressing weight on the other side of the doors was gone.

Tentatively, the hillman backed away from one of the doors, but stood ready to shut it again. It remained closed. “Out of danger now,” the Demon Lord said reassuringly. He gestured, and the doors swung slightly inward, revealing an empty corridor beyond. Kailash regarded the passageway in amazement. The walls and carpet were dry; there were no stains of blood anywhere, though the portcullis still blocked the corridor a few feet beyond the doors.

Madesus looked down at his robes. Where there had been red stains before, there were none now. He clapped his hands in mock applause. “A clever trick, Balberoth. Perhaps you will juggle for us next, or walk a tightrope.”

Conan and Kailash were confused by the change that had overcome the priest. His words were uncouth and insulting. In contrast, the blue-skinned man was friendly and polite, his words comforting. Surely they had nothing to fear from him.

“Thy jealously dost not become thee, Madesus. Dost not thy philosophy dictate that thou should be forgiving and kind, not harsh and cruel? I regret the hostile manner in which my shadowy minion conducted himself earlier, and I forgive thee for upsetting him so. I assure thee, I was in no way responsible for his rash deeds. He was under the power of a creature who stole him away from me, and most unfortunately forced him to attack thee.”

“Then why are you here? To apologize to us, to bestow your unwanted sympathy upon us? Or, more likely, to finish the task your lackey was ill equipped to accomplish!”

“Thine accusations are unfounded, priest. I have come to join thee in a common goal, that of finding and destroying the Mutare priestess. She abducted my minion and forced it to fight with thee and thy companions.

Such a wanton act cannot go unpunished. Together, we will find her and put an end to her misdeeds!”

Conan and Kailash were now convinced that Madesus had been wrong about Balberoth. He was not a demon, but some otherworldly creature sent by the gods to help them. They were satisfied that he was reaching a hand out in friendship. Had Madesus gone mad? Could he not see that Balberoth could help them all?

Madesus shook his head, but he was unaware of the effect that Balberoth was having on Conan and Kailash. “Save your lies, hell-spawn. You pretend to offer us help, yet I perceive only your burning desire to slaughter us like cattle. Enough of this! By the will of Mitra, Father of Light, I command you to cast aside your staff and return to the bottomless depths of your slime-filled spawning-pit! Masquim Xul ia marratu, yar Balberoth! Balberoth, absu yar alaxul! Xizul absu marratu, nar marratu, yar Balberoth!”

As the priest spoke, his amulet flared up, sending a ray of blinding light straight at the demon.

Before the ray could reach Balberoth, it bent unnaturally, curving away and striking his crystal staff instead. The beam bounced off, producing an impressive shower of multihued sparks. Rebounding, it missed Kailash by inches before colliding with the bronze doors. The colossal slabs shivered; tendrils of bluish-white light crawled over them, and then they crumbled into small shards. Balberoth looked Conan straight in the eye and pleaded with him.

“Conan! Thou must help me! Madesus has gone mad; he nearly slew Kailash!” He turned his gaze to the hillman next, his eyes glowing like white beacons. “Quickly, wield thy sword and cut him down before he murders us all in his madness!” The demon’s bone-white lips drew together in a ghastly smile. He grinned malevolently at Madesus, who shuddered involuntarily at the unholy demon’s gaze.

The priest watched in disbelief as the two men advanced slowly toward him, brandishing their swords. “Conan! Kailash! The demon has bewitched you, turned you against me. Conan! What of your oath to Salvorus?

Kailash! Think of your king, and your sworn duty to protect him. Close your ears to the words of this creature of night!”

They did not heed the priest. Their eyes were clouded, their ears closed to his words. Balberoth urged them on, sensing that he had the upper hand. “Quickly! Thy lives are at stake! Strike now, before he strikes thee down!”

Madesus stepped back and blasted the demon, but the ray from his amulet missed again, deflected by the crystal staff. Conan reached the priest first, his sword-arm swept back in preparation for a brutal slash. For an instant, his eyes and mind cleared with the realization that the demon’s voice had charmed him. He checked the motion of his blade, but then the moment was gone. He continued with his swing.

Madesus lurched sideways as the Cimmerian’s sword ripped through his robe, grazing the surface of his skin. The priest lost his footing and fell to the floor, right in front of Kailash. The huge hillman lifted his blade for a lethal thrust. Madesus sought frantically for a way out, but his back was against the wall. He closed his eyes and waited for the sharpened steel to pierce his vitals, dismally aware that the priestess had defeated him. The last member of the Order of Xuoquelos was doomed.

XII

Shan-e-Sorkh

Azora brushed aside the thick tapestry of cobwebs stretching across the antechamber of Skauraul’s stronghold. She had shut the front doors behind her, blocking out the painfully intrusive rays of the mid-morning sun. Its accursed face burned hot and bright in the red wastes of the Shemitish desert, hurting her eyes and stinging her flesh. She hated the sun; it sapped her strength, like a giant yellow leech.

The dark, musty antechamber of the stronghold was much more to her liking. She felt an ancient residue of evil in the place, and inhaled its stale air with relish. A few bulbous, hairy-legged spiders stirred in the corners of the room, disturbed by her presence. With interest, she watched these children of Zath, the Zamoran spider-god of Yezud. A few of them were twice the size of her head; their plump, glistening abdomens were bloated with poison.

She admired them for their singularity of purpose. The children of Zath were harbingers of death, cunning little assassins who could trap and slay creatures many times their size. Even the smallest of their kin inspired fear and loathing in humans. One could learn much by studying their methods.

Azora removed the Augur from her cloak, peering casually into it to see if the pathetic priest and his dull-witted guard dogs were dead yet.

She frowned in annoyance, as the Augur refused to focus. The harder she concentrated on it, the more resistance she felt. Finally she gave up in fury, flinging the orb to the floor and cursing. The priest had not the power to block the Augur, even were he aware of its distantly probing eye!

Still fuming, she picked up the Augur. It had been working perfectly just a short while ago, by the outer walls of the stronghold. Acting on impulse, she shoved the outer doors open, then looked into the Augur once more. Immediately the room below the Targolian temple came clearly into focus. Her anger gave way to gratification as she saw the two warriors advancing on the priest, brandishing their swords.

The weak-witted buffoons had been easy prey for Balberoth, whose spellbinding voice had the power of suggestion over all but the most iron-willed of mortals. The two bullish oafs would serve admirably as executioners. Their help was vital, for neither she nor the Demon Lord could directly harm the priest, who bore an ancient talisman blessed by Mitra, the wretched Father of Light. Satisfied that the meddling priest’s death was imminent, she put the Augur back into her cloak and slammed the doors shut. If the sun had not been so intense, she would have left the doors open and savoured every dying moment of Mitra’s contemptible pawn.

With the irksome priest removed, she was free to pursue her present goals. First, she would learn Skauraul’s secrets, to protect herself from any threat that other priests of Mitra might pose. Afterwards, she would return to the city and cause the frail human maggots there to suffer and die. Soon, on the first day of the Scorpion’s Month, the moon would disappear from the night sky. On that blackest of eves, she would complete the ultimate Mutare ritual of power: the spell of immortality. No longer would the passage of time affect her, as it affected all living creatures by ageing and weakening them. Had Skauraul been able to complete this rite, he would have become the overlord of all lands.

When she finished the rite, she would be a priestess no longer, but a goddess: baleful and indomitable. Her whims would drive kingdoms to ruin and despair. Priests and emperors would grovel before her; she would find countless ways to torture and humiliate them, each more painful and degrading than the last. Mankind would feel the coming darkness of eternal nightfall, and be powerless to stop it.

None of the Mutare before her had ever reached this pinnacle of power.

They had fallen to quarrelling among themselves, leading to their mutual destruction. Even Skauraul had been weakened so severely that the ragtag Order of Xuoquelos had vanquished him. Azora had no such enemies to contend with; Skauraul had been the last of the Mutare, and Madesus was the last of the Order.

Azora could not remember when she had first learned about the Mutare.

She had no recollection of parents or childhood. She considered Stygia to be her birthplace. Her first memories were of a place by the Bakhr River, near the Purple Lotus swamps of southern Stygia. There she had undergone the ceremony of change, marking her birth as a Mutare. In the years afterward, she had pursued knowledge of the Mutare with insatiable obsession.

By journeying to many faraway lands, seeking places ancient and forbidden, she had found what she sought. She had lied, cheated, stolen, and murdered; she had let nothing stand in her way. The Mutare were unencumbered by human weaknesses of conscience and morals.

Eventually she had amassed a store of knowledge sufficient to begin carrying out her schemes. Soon Skauraul’s knowledge of the black arts would supplement her own.

She brushed aside the sticky strands of web in the antechamber, dislodging a hand-sized spider. It scuttled toward her, then paused.

She glanced at it with annoyance, then with curiosity. Unlike its larger cousins above, this spider was hairless; its shiny black body was thinner and more angular, with proportionally longer legs and wicked, curved fangs. It glared up at her with its many green, glowing eyes, suggesting an intelligence beyond those of its larger, bulbous brothers. Azora ignored it and moved toward the closest of the antechamber’s three inner doors.

The doors were small, but forged of iron and fitted with elaborate designs of metal. Hideous, leering gargoyles protruded from the stone wall above each door, poised as if to reach down and strike the unwary.

Their snarling faces were stone masks of hatred. A master sculptor had added uncanny realism to mouths that bristled with rows of jagged teeth. A long, thick tongue lolled grotesquely from each open mouth, ending in a sharp point of stone like a spike. Their stubby arms each had seven-clawed hands, clutching small orbs, and webbed, bat-like wings sprouted from their narrow shoulders. Obscenely exaggerated genitalia jutted forth between their short, thick, scaly legs. The carvings showed some minor cracks and other signs of wear, but otherwise, they were in surprisingly good repair.

The door before her was also in good condition. Shem’s desert climate permitted no rust to set in; even if rain had fallen upon the fortress, none would have come into the chamber through the solidly built stone roof. Azora reached for the door handle with her black-gloved hand, but stopped and turned when she heard a faint whisper from behind.

The hairless spider was only a few feet from her, still staring up with its headful of lidless eyes. Its long legs flexed, and it jumped straight at her with blinding speed. Azora raised her hand to bat it away while dodging aside. She missed by inches. The creature landed squarely on her left shoulder and gripped the fabric of her cloak tightly. Cursing, she swatted at it with her right hand, trying to brush it off.

“Ssst… wait!” it hissed into her left ear, in a faint, bubbling whisper. “No foe am I! No hurt I. Ssst… I helps she.”

Her hand still raised, Azora turned her head and scowled at the creature with an expression of anger and suspicion. The children of Zath had lost the power of speech centuries ago, or so claimed the dusty lore books she had read. She had nothing to fear from this little one anyway. Since she was without lifeblood, unlike weak humans, lethal poisons were of no consequence to her. She decided to see what the creature wanted, before crushing it like an oversized grape against the chamber’s stone floor.

“Yesss, ssst, yes… will help she,” it said, as if sensing her hesitation. “Sssaved she already, I have!” it hissed.

“And what have you saved me from, little one?” Azora sneered in amusement.

“Had Xim stopped she not, open would door be! She-bones would old ones be gnawing!” Xim found this humorous; his whispering voice burbled in a sinister parody of laughter

“These are the old ones?” Azora said sarcastically, pointing to the gargoyles over the doors. “They are but lumps of stone! Great is my power, little one. I command demons that could grind these old ones into sand.” Even as she boasted, she considered the possibility that Xim was telling the truth.

Xim shifted his grip on the Mutare’s shoulder, bobbing up and down a little as if agitated. “With Xim’s help, demons not need she, no demons! Sssecrets I have. Yes, yes… tell them to she!” Xim’s eyes glowed fiercely, like lighthouse beacons on a foggy night. “But help us, she must!”

“There are others here like you?” Azora asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Ssst… no, no, no. Not like Xim. Friends Xim has, who in webs dwell.”

The arachnid waved its two forelegs at the upper corners of the room, where Azora had first seen the larger spiders. “Thirsty for man-blood, no more lizards and desert bugs! Mussst have man-blood, as ancient master once brought. Like ancient master she is, yesss! When first Xim saw she, knew this he did! Bring man-blood again she must, or no help no more will Xim give!”

Azora’s eyes gleamed blackly in the faint light of the chamber as she bored them into Xim. They were like the eyes of a cobra poised to strike. “Did the ancient master have a name?”

“Ssst… yes, yes, but too long, too hard to say. Scar, Xim called him, yes he did!”

Scar? Skauraul! Azora was more certain than ever that Xim’s ancient master had been the Mutare who ruled from this stronghold. She would postpone the demise of this little one until she learned all that it knew of Skauraul.

“If it is blood you desire, little one, then blood you will have!” From within her cloak, she drew out a small glass flask and uncorked it.

Inside, a syrupy red liquid sloshed around. She let some of it drip out onto her right palm, then offered the outstretched hand to Xim.

He shifted forward and sucked up the drops greedily with his sharp, hollow fangs. Azora was glad that she had carried the flask around; many of her powerful spells required a bit of human blood. She would have to ration it carefully to avoid running out. If she exhausted her supply, there were no humans for many leagues around to replenish it.

Better to lie to this insipid creature and use him as long as she could before crushing him. “Soon you and your friends will drink the fresh blood of living men, as you once did. This I swear!”

When Xim had cleaned every trace of blood from her palm, she carefully replaced the cork and tucked the flask back into a pocket of her cloak.

“Tell me, little one, did the master have a library?”

Xim clicked his fangs together. “Man-blood warm and fresh is better, yes it isss,” he burbled. “Too long since man-blood has Xim tasted. But no lib-bary have I seen, no. What is lib-bary?”

Azora bared her black, hooked teeth in a snarl, biting back her temper.

“A hall of books and scrolls,” she said impatiently. “There must be one here. Take me there, now!” Her voice rang commandingly in the chamber.

Xim bobbed up and down, hissing excitedly. Red froth bubbled from the points of his fangs. “Ssst… yes, yes, know this place, Xim does. Show she the way, he will! Far from here is lib-bary. Know secret paths.”

“Show me, then,” she demanded. “Quickly, little one!”

Xim jumped nimbly from her shoulder to the wall of the chamber, where he clung to the stone in a manner that defied gravity. He scuttled along the wall, away from the door Azora had been about to open.

Moments later, without warning, the spider vanished. She spun around, quickly looking for any signs of trickery. “Xim! Where have you gone, you treacherous—”

Xim’s bubbling whisper came back in response, from behind the wall.

Azora could barely hear it; the wall muffled his voice. “Through wall must she walk. No doors open, or wake old ones, she will. Ssst… no doors, no old ones, no, no!”

She put her hand out to touch the wall on the spot where Xim had disappeared. Her hand passed through it. Then a section of the wall wavered and faded. Beyond it, she could see a narrow stone passage, sloping upward into the stronghold. Xim clung to a large stone brick along the corridor’s wall, waiting. Azora stomped forward, vexed that she had not seen through this childish illusion right away. It was a simple sorcerer’s trick, designed to deceive the unwary. The translocation must have drained her more than she had realized. She would have to be more careful, since only the passage of time would restore the energy that she had expended.

Unlike weak humans, she needed no sleep, no food or drink. She fed on the fear of the living, and drank their anguish. This was all the sustenance she needed. Without it, she would slowly wither; her power would evaporate like dew under the morning sun.

She moved down the corridor, following Xim. The faint light from the chamber faded quickly, but her eyes adjusted to the absence of light immediately. She could see farther in darkness than in light; her catlike red eyes pierced the blackness. A suffocating quiet shrouded the corridor; the only sounds were those of Xim’s sporadic wheezing, the occasional, scuffing of Azora’s boots on the stone floor, and the rustling of her heavy cloak.

They passed several side passages and doors, but Xim kept to the main corridor, turning only a few times. The strange arachnid knew the way well; not for a moment did he hesitate as they went deep into the stronghold. The Mutare priestess carefully memorized each turn they made, creating a mental map of their route.

One section of corridor looked much like another. The décor was unremarkable; it consisted of almost perfectly symmetrical brickwork.

Large, square blocks of dark stone had been laid evenly in unending rows along the floor and walls. No torches, tapestries, or rugs adorned the halls; the place was as bare as it was gloomy. Nearly every door she passed by was made of iron, fashioned in strange but repetitious patterns.

Azora wondered what forgotten secrets lay behind the closed doors, but she did not stop to satisfy her curiosity. She had taken a liking to the stronghold. She could sense its brooding evil, as if the very bricks were imbued with hostile intelligence. She mused as she walked, realizing that this would be a fitting place to enact her schemes.

Skauraul’s influence had stretched from here to faraway lands in all directions; her power would soon be greater than his ever had been. She was eager to unearth the powerful, hidden knowledge lying within the dusty rooms of Skauraul’s tower.

“Sssoon, soon,” crooned Xim, as if he could read her thoughts. “Nearly there, she is, yes! Seen lib-bary, been there. Yes, yes,” he bubbled as he crept along the corridor. “Soon, up long ssstair must we go, up-up-up!”

They had slowly been moving upward all along, Azora knew. She could feel the incline of the corridor, but could not tell precisely how far they had ascended. The way had gradually curved around and doubled back at least a dozen times’. The doors and walls were in increasingly better condition as they went higher and higher. The sensation of evil heightened as well, until she could feel its comforting presence all around her. There was something else here, too… a new presence, more forceful, but hostile. She wondered what it was.

Xim halted several feet before her, where the corridor came to an abrupt end. Before them was a spiral staircase of black iron, rising beyond the range of even her eyesight. A thick iron column, carved in painstaking detail, supported solid metal steps that wound about it.

The steps were narrow, with no rails.

“Ssst… long stair,” Xim sputtered. “Up must she go. Yes, yes, up. At top is what she seek!”

Still distrustful of the strange spider, Azora followed it cautiously to the base of the winding stair. She was prepared to deal harshly with any treachery the little runt might attempt. At the present time, though, she was willing to risk following it. Earlier, before the translocation, she had tried using her Augur to peer within the stronghold, to see what secrets it held. Her Augur had failed to penetrate the walls. Again and again she had tried, but the Augur had stubbornly refused to focus for her. Obviously, some potent spell of Skauraul’s, cast upon the tower long ago, was interfering.

No matter, she reflected, setting aside her misgivings about Xim as she reached the bottom step. After Xim led her to Skauraul’s store of wisdom, she would beat the little multi-legged runt to an oozing green pulp and feed the dripping carcass to its “friends” in the antechamber below.

Spurred on by the image of the hairy spiders devouring Xim’s pulped remains, Azora began the long walk up the serpentine iron staircase’s countless steps.

XIII

Targol

Madesus heard the air rushing past Kailash’s blade as it hurtled toward him. Its keen edge sliced through his robes but missed his side by a fraction, biting into his leather sack instead. The sack’s contents spilled forth in a jumble of crushed jars and smashed phials as the blade snagged into its metal hasp. Kailash tugged at it, temporarily blocking Conan’s path.

The priest rolled to one side, hoping to rush for the door. His speed was no match for the Cimmerian’s. As Kailash snarled and wrenched his blade free, Conan jumped forward to cut Madesus off. Both the hillman and the barbarian acted mechanically; they did not speak, and their eyes were glazed with madness. The demon’s mesmerizing voice held them like puppets on a string. Madesus drew in his breath, preparing for the sword-thrust that would most likely end his life. He raised up his amulet, chanting rapidly, hoping he was not too late.

All three men froze in place as something in the doorway caught their attention. Even Balberoth’s voice died on his bone-white lips. The shards of the bronze doors were rising from the floor, and the remaining pieces had detached themselves from the frame. Metal twisted and shifted before their eyes, changing into an increasingly familiar shape, and eventually melded into a single form. Before them stood a giant in bronze, with a profile similar to that of a human male, but crudely shaped and oddly proportioned, as if hastily chiselled from stone by some drunken sculptor.

The giant was over nine feet tall. Yellow-orange flames flickered in his eye sockets. He raised a bronze hand bigger than Conan’s head and extended it toward the three men. He held the hand up, unbending the fingers slowly. Angular bronze lips parted, revealing teeth of red fire and a tongue of yellow-orange flame. A single word issued from this furnace-like orifice.

“STOP.” The syllable boomed out like a searing blast of hot, desert wind, bringing beads of sweat to the faces of the three awestruck onlookers. Balberoth squinted and blinked, but said nothing.

The bronze giant took one stride forward into the room, his huge, squarish feet chipping the hard stone floor. Slowly his mouth opened and he spoke again. “I AM TARGOL.”

Balberoth spared a quick glance at Madesus, then spoke to Conan and Kailash with apparent desperation. “Attack, fools! This is some trick of the priest, who would destroy thee with his treachery! Strike the priest down and this apparition will vanish!”

Kailash shook himself and took a step toward Madesus, swinging his sword savagely. With incredible speed for his size, the bronze giant caught the blade in his left hand, wrenching it from the hillman’s grasp. That powerful hand crumpled and twisted the weapon as if it were a piece of straw. Expertly forged, hardened Nemedian steel was no match for Targol’s awesome strength. The mangled blade fell to the floor with an echoing metallic clank.

The giant’s fiery gaze fixed on Balberoth. “YOU HAVE DEFILED TARGOL’S

TEMPLE. YOU WILL CEASE TO EXIST.” The words issued slowly from the mouth of fire, reverberating in the room. As they echoed, Balberoth burst into flames. The demon screamed as he was consumed in a column of smokeless, red-orange fire. When the screams and the fire died out, nothing remained of Balberoth but a small, greasy blue smear on the chamber floor.

Conan’s mind cleared immediately, and he shook his head as if waking from a disorienting dream. He stared wide-eyed at the creature of bronze that stood before them, its eyes of flame flickering in the darkness. After a long pause, he found his voice. “Well done, Madesus!

Your amulet is powerful indeed! Why did you not summon up this giant earlier?”

Madesus said nothing in response. He continued to gape at the bronze titan in fascination, as if he had not even heard Conan speak.

Eventually his answer to the Cimmerian came out in a cracked whisper.

“My amulet has no such power. We stand before Targol himself!”

Kailash fell to his knees, turning away from the giant’s face. Conan shuddered with superstitious dread, glad that Balberoth was gone, but wondering if Targol would do away with them next. Madesus looked as if he was about to say something, when the misshapen giant spoke again.

“LEAVE THIS PLACE IN PEACE. TARGOL HAS NO QUARREL WITH YOU.”

Madesus cleared his throat nervously. “My companions and I thank you, mighty Targol. We will do as you say. But if I may ask, have you destroyed the Mutare priestess, or only the demon she summoned?”

Madesus’s voice sounded small and faint in comparison to Targol’s.

Conan and Kailash looked at him as if he had gone mad. Targol simply stood there, his fiery mouth still open, ignoring the priest’s question. After a long, silent pause, his deep voice thundered again.

“SHE HAS FLED TO THE SHAN-E-SORKH. SHE IS OF NO CONCERN TO TARGOL. YOU

WILL LEAVE THIS PLACE. COME BACK NO MORE.”

Conan and Kailash needed no further urging. As they fled the room, the hillman glanced wistfully at the remains of his sword, lying on the floor beside the giant’s feet. Conan clapped a huge hand on Madesus’s shoulder, propelling him toward the doorway. The bronze effigy stood aside, letting them pass through the doors. The corridor’s macabre red carpeting muffled the sound of their footsteps. Madesus looked over his shoulder for a final glimpse of Targol, but all he saw was the bronze door, no longer in pieces on the floor. It shut behind them, looking exactly as it had when they had first seen it. The priest shook his head and hastened to catch up with his companions.

They slowed to a half-run without speaking among themselves, quickly reaching the steep stone stairway leading into the auditorium above.

Conan went up first, climbing out into the huge chamber. Minutes later, all three stood in the temple, looking around. Conan observed that the bronze backs he had torn from the benches were back in place, as were the bronze handles on the back of the temple doors. However, the temple doors were no longer closed. They were wide open, beckoning them to leave.

Outside, the afternoon sky was bright, though none of the sun’s rays shone directly through the open doors. When the last of them had stepped through, the doors slid shut with a resounding crash. Startled, they jumped at the sound. The Cimmerian breathed a sigh of relief, glad to be out of the strange temple. Kailash immediately fired questions at Madesus, wanting to know more about Targol and Balberoth.

“Why did he destroy the demon, yet spare us?” the hillman asked, still confused by the giant’s actions. “Conan did more damage to the temple than Balberoth did!”

“There is ancient enmity between Targol and the Demon Lords,” the priest replied absently. “Yog, a Demon Lord worshipped by the people of Darfar, was Targol’s worst enemy of old. Yog was a fierce demon of the Elder Night; some say the most powerful. In Zamboula, where the worship of Yog became most popular, the Yoggite hierarch tried to drive all other religions out of the area. Several centuries ago, on one bloody night, the priests of Targol were captured and marched to a pit of Yog, where their hearts were cut out and eaten by the Yoggites in a sacrificial ceremony. Stories are still told of that grim ritual of butchery, when the moonlight glinted redly as hundreds were slaughtered, filling the pit with blood.

“The next day, the sharp-toothed priests of Yog disappeared, even the hierarch. No trace of them was seen until the moon rose again that night. Their skeletal remains were found piled in the pit, still clad in their feathered robes and Khari finery. Terrible was Targol’s vengeance, but futile. His temple in Zamboula fell into ruin, and eventually a new Yoggite priesthood was established. Texts of history agree that to this day, Targol bears a deadly grudge against Yog and his kind, but both are unwilling to confront each other directly.

Balberoth no doubt fell victim to this grudge.”

“I have heard that no man can look upon the face of a god and live,”

Kailash stated solemnly, looking Madesus straight in the eye. “Yet we have done so.”

“We may have, hillman, but we may have not,” Madesus replied cryptically. “Little is known of Targol, and much of what is written about his appearance is contradictory. However, Targol’s mastery over the elements of earth and fire has been hinted at by several scholars.

The bronze colossus we saw may have been a golem, crafted and animated by Targol to serve his purpose. As I said before, the gods prefer to avoid confrontation. For instance, Conan, your Crom—”

“This is no time for a lesson, priest,” the Cimmerian interrupted, shifting his feet impatiently. “I know all I wish to know of Crom.

While we stand here prattling, our chances of finding this accursed priestess grow lesser and lesser. We have a task to finish!” He threw a murderous glance at Kailash, as if to warn him not to get the priest going again with further questions.

“Yes, of course,” Madesus agreed. “You are quite right. Indeed, our task is now more difficult than ever. We must pursue the priestess to the Shan-e-Sorkh. Many leagues must we travel, to the desert wastes of eastern Shem. On horseback, the journey will take over a month.”

“Over a month!” Kailash exclaimed in dismay.

“Longer,” Conan interjected. “Only a fool would take a horse into the waterless sands of the Shemitish desert. Even camels cannot survive there. We can ride to the southern borders of Khauran, but from there, we will have to continue on foot.” He shook his head ponderously. “A few years ago, I was in a tavern, speaking with an old Nemedian campaigner. He had once journeyed to Sabatea, a Shemitish city near the Taian Mountains, just west of the Shan-e-Sorkh. Many times did he fill his wine cup when he spoke of this journey, and his hands shook. He had been escorting for a merchant caravan through the area. ‘What the desert lacks in water, it makes up for in bandits,’ he said.”

Kailash snorted. “No bandit has ever crossed swords with the son of Kranarous and lived.”

“The Nemedian’s hands trembled not at the memory of the bandits, but of something else,” the barbarian retorted. “The deserts of Shem are places of deaths forsaken entirely by the living. What the Nemedian had seen, he would not say. Anything that can strike terror in the hardened heart of a jaded Nemedian mercenary, we would do well to avoid. I propose we take a different route than his; let us cross the Kezankian Mountains to the east, avoiding Corinthia, Zamora, and Koth. If we follow the mountains southward, we will find the trade road leading from Khauran to Zamboula. We can use the Taian Mountains for bearing. I have only one question, priest. The Shan-e-Sorkh is a vast area of desert. Where in it will we find our quarry?”

“An excellent question, Conan. I have a few questions of my own, more difficult to answer than yours. Why would she go there, and how did she get there so quickly? The traces of her presence I felt were very strong; they could not even have been a few days old. Yet, as you say, the journey takes a month. No doubt she has mastered translocation, another of the magical arts. Only those who wield incredible magical power can manage this feat. I did not anticipate that even she had such abilities. Still, I have an idea of where in the Shan-e-Sorkh she has gone. My master said that Skauraul, greatest of the vanquished Mutare, had dwelt in the land of Shem. Perhaps she has gone to the ruins of his palace, to seek something there, or to restore the palace and build her powers there.”

“Even so, we do not know where these ruins lie,” Conan pointed out.

‘True enough; we do not know… yet. However, all we need do is to come close. The sorcery that shielded the Mutare from me in Targol’s temple will not shield her in the desert. We will head for the centre of the region, until I feel some trace of her presence. Then we will know what direction to take.”

“I will have horses and provisions prepared,” Kailash added, looking ruefully at his empty sword-belt. “I also must find a new sword.

Hopefully, I will test its edge on bandit-necks.”

They descended the temple steps and made their way past the nearby old buildings, quickly reaching the street. A few clouds had drifted into the path of the afternoon sun, and an autumn breeze whispered among the buildings, brushing them with cool fingers. Conan ignored the chill, thinking that the place to which they were headed would be more than warm enough.

The Cimmerian was calmer than Kailash about the impending journey.

Conan had travelled through many lands, from the icy, frozen tundra of the north to the sweltering jungles of the south. Each had its likeable and dislikeable qualities. He called none of them home; even Cimmeria was homeland but not truly his home. His restless nature kept him constantly moving from land to land. Seldom did he ever return to Cimmeria. There he grew bored with the grim, grey mountains, ceaseless winter, and dull life-style.

His homeland had proven no less perilous than other countries he had travelled through. His kin were a fierce, warlike race, bearing grudges against enemy clans for uncounted centuries. No battle that Conan had fought in the lands of civilized men had been as savage and elemental as the clan-wars of Cimmeria. Nonetheless, the men of the south could be as cruel as their deserts.

Conan reached into his memory to recall details of the terrain they would soon encounter. For ease of navigation, he reckoned that the simplest course would follow the Kezankian Mountains south, until their craggy ridges and peaks gave way to the Mountains of Fire. This forbidding range along the northern border of Shem formed a barrier of land that few men would dare cross. They would have to avoid these mountains altogether by heading south-east for several days. Then the most difficult stretch of their trek would lie before them: the crossing of the Shemitish desert to its sunburnt heart, known to some as the Shan-e-Sorkh.

This godforsaken area was shunned by even the hardiest of Shemitish desert dwellers. Its endless leagues of hard-baked earth and waterless dunes of sand were the setting of many a grim campfire tale. Conan had oft heard soldiers spin yarns about their daring adventures in this desert land. If one believed every tale told, the place teemed with savage desert beasts, fierce, marauding nomads, and evil spirits haunting the crumbling stones of ruined castles. As superstitious as he was, Conan discounted many of the stories he heard as the boasting of soldiers inspired by excesses of cheap wine.

What Conan really hoped to find in the desert was the ruins of some forgotten palace, with its treasure-store intact. If he could fulfil his oath to Salvorus and fatten his purse in the process, so much the better. He had planned to journey south to Zamora anyway. When he arrived in Shadizar, he would have enough coin to do more with his nights than practice thievery. When all this was over, he would relish a few drunken evenings of wenching and debauchery.

Thinking cheerfully of Shadizar’s flesh-pits, Conan moved with Madesus and Kailash. As if by unspoken agreement, the Cimmerian was now in charge of the expedition. Hill man and priest followed him quietly to the palace, where they would rest and prepare themselves for their arduous journey. Though each man had his own reasons for undertaking the quest, they were united in a single main purpose: to find and destroy the Mutare priestess.

Nearby, another man followed behind them, moving with silence that a panther would have envied. The man was wearing a lightweight cloak, with its dark-grey hood cast over his face. The cloak concealed his robes of powdery-blue silk, rustling softly like the scaly skin of serpents in an underground den. In the shadows beneath the hood, eyes colder than winter in Vanaheim dogged every step Conan and his companions made, and ears strained to hear their every word. Lamici’s fanatical mind was bent on revenge. He cared not that they planned to travel south; he would follow them to the mouth of the River Styx and beyond, if necessary. For the good of Brythunia, he would strike down Madesus. The accursed priest had revived the false king and destroyed Lamici’s dreams of bringing honour and respect back to his homeland.

Conan and Kailash had aided him, and they also deserved death; Lamici planned to deal with them, too.

The eunuch felt the reassuring weight of his deadly stiletto, its envenomed blade still strapped to his forearm. Soon, Lamici would sheath it in the priest’s heart. The meddler could not hide behind the two warriors forever, Lamici reasoned grimly. When the moment of vulnerability came, the eunuch would be there, ready to strike.

Lamici’s pale lips drew back tightly into a cruel smile, shadowed by a hood as grey as the clouds now filling the brooding sky.

XIV

Southbound

Eldran sat up slowly. Even this simple act was a difficult feat for him. He had awakened less than an hour ago, to find that the Mutare’s death-spell had dreadfully weakened his body.

His mind, once as sharp as an Aquilonian sword, was now duller than a stone ax. He knew that his appearance was shocking, although he had not seen his face in a looking-glass. When his friends gazed upon him, their expressions told him as much as a looking-glass would have.

Even Kailash, standing before him, could not hide the pity he felt.

Eldran could see it in the corners of his friend’s eyes and hear it in the edges of his voice. He was disgusted by his weakness. He prayed silently to Wiccana for quick restoration of his health, before word of his frailty could spread to neighbouring kingdoms. If loose tongues wagged news of his unstable health, the Nemedians and Hyperboreans would swoop down on Brythunia like buzzards, tearing at his people and snatching away pieces of their land. Shred by shred, they would pick apart the kingdom he was trying to bind together.

He pushed these depressing thoughts to the back of his mind. What had the hillman just said? He grimaced and spoke raspingly to his old comrade. “Forgive me, my friend. I cannot hold my thoughts together.

Please explain to me again why you must go south.”

“Of course,” Kailash said, gritting his teeth in frustration. He was outraged to see Eldran reduced to such a state. The priestess would pay for her misdeeds! Clearing his throat, he repeated his tale to Eldran.

To the king’s credit, the hillman’s account was jumbled, and even a man in full possession of his wits would have found the tale confusing.

However, with the help of Madesus and Conan, Eldran soon understood the events that had passed since he had fallen ill. Feebly, he held up a shaking hand to silence Kailash.

“I am indebted to all of you,” he said, letting his hand drop to his lap. “And Salvorus’s name shall be honoured in the historian’s chronicles henceforth. Yet this journey you plan will rob me of a chance to pay back my debts. Would that I had the strength to go in your place.”

Eldran finished this declaration with a wracking cough that nearly doubled him over, causing Kailash to tense. Madesus simply offered an expression of quiet concern; he opened his mouth as if to speak, then quickly shut it, saying nothing.

Conan happened to be watching Madesus at that moment, when a realization struck him. The priest could do nothing further for Eldran, and his helplessness was frustrating him. Madesus had always come through when pitted against the magic of his enemies, although the priest’s spells had been very selective, as if evoked at the whim of some unseen entity. Strange were the priests of Mitra. The Cimmerian was looking forward to parting company with Madesus and his priestly embroilments.

“Conan, I am sorry that you have become involved in this affair,”

Eldran apologized in a hoarse, uneven voice. “I absolve you of the oath you made to my captain. You need not venture south. In fact, if you would consider it, I would offer you the position of captain in the city guard. You have proven yourself worthy. If you do not wish to be captain, I would ask at least that you accept a full purse of gold, and passage through the gates of the city to wherever you wish to go. This is the least I can do to even the score between us.”

“Nay,” the Cimmerian responded. “You cannot discharge my oath. The oath of a Cimmerian is no cloud in the sky, to be swept away by a passing breeze. Salvorus’s spirit will not rest until the priestess is slain.

Your captain was a stalwart man, and the wrongful death of such a man must be avenged.” Conan snorted. “To think that men call me and my kin barbarians! I will live or die by my oath. However, I would accept the bag of gold, for the expenses of our journey.”

Eldran’s head drooped wearily, but the ghost of a smile was on his face. “Last night you were in my dungeon, awaiting the fall of my headsman’s ax, and now you will travel hundreds of leagues to vanquish my foe. You speak truly. We civilized people could learn much from you.

I am grateful that my borders do not cross with those of Cimmeria! Go south then, if you must. Equip yourselves as you will from the armoury, and take the finest stallions our stables have to offer. With such resolve as you have, you will triumph over this depraved priestess and return to the city. My prayers go with you.”

Completely drained, Eldran slid back down onto the dais, his chest heaving as violent spasms of coughing racked him again. Sweat drenched his furrowed brow, and all colour had fled from his face. The monarch said nothing more to them, finally closing his eyes and drifting into a troubled slumber.

They left his chamber without comment, their eyes downcast. Several of Kailash’s fellow hillmen swarmed around the chamber’s only exit.

Kailash gave them specific orders for the king’s safekeeping. He trusted every man in the chamber implicitly. He had fought side by side with these men at one time or another; over the years, they had become like brothers to him.

Kailash’s main concern now was to find a suitable blade, and a horse on which to ride south. He realized that in a way, he was looking forward to the journey. Many years had passed since he had been on a campaign in the wilds. Recently he had been confined to the city with the king, leaving only to escort Eldran to places within a day’s ride. His initial suspicion of Conan and Madesus had been replaced with respect, even with admiration. Conan was a finer warrior than any in Kailash’s memory, and Madesus wielded power that Kailash had never seen the like of.

Like the hillman, Conan was also reflecting on the imminent journey. He was neither eager nor apprehensive about the quest. For all his talk of oaths, he still harboured other good reasons to travel south. Madesus’s tale of Skauraul and his fortress had reminded him of tales he had heard from others of the vast hordes of forgotten wealth lying heaped in dusty treasure-vaults.

If Skauraul had been as powerful as Madesus had described him, the evil Mutare lord must have piled up countless riches in his lifetime.

Superstition may have kept looters away from the ruins of the stronghold, until its very existence was forgotten. Mayhap a thorough search would turn up some material rewards for their quest. With his mind’s eye gazing upon casks full of glinting gold coins, and urns spilling over with shimmering gems, the barbarian youth followed Kailash and Madesus to the palace armoury.

The armoury, located less than a hundred paces from Eldran’s chambers, was a storehouse of weapons and armour from all over Hyborea. In the past, Brythunia had acquired many of its war implements from other lands. Some weapons had been taken from slain invaders; others had been purchased, or given to Brythunian nobles as gifts. There was little order to the jumble of equipment packed into the small, poorly lit room. Several racks of swords stood near the door, and a few worktables had been piled high with other weapons needing work. Against one wall, a precariously balanced stack of breastplates and shields looked as if the slightest touch would topple it.

Standing in the doorway, Madesus shifted impatiently from foot to foot while waiting for Kailash and Conan to select their gear. The burly, muscle-bound Kezankian finally settled on a hand-and-a-half sword over three feet in length. Such was his strength that he could easily wield it with one hand. Its quillons were cunningly crafted in the likeness of a hawk’s outspread wings. A carved iron hilt suggested the head of a fierce hawk, its sharp beak forming the pommel. So keen was the blade’s edge that Kailash had sliced his thumb while testing it. Such a sword was not made to be sheathed. Instead, the hillman donned a leather harness with which to strap the immense blade to his back. Then he picked out a new helm to replace the one he had lost in the temple.

Finally he selected a pair of arm-guards, studded with plates of iron.

Conan declined to wear any corselet, jerkin, or mail. They were confining, and he did not wish to be burdened by them. He would trust his sword-arm and his blade to protect him from whatever enemies they might encounter. As he scanned through the bewildering assortment of gear in the armoury, a broad-bladed dagger caught his eye. The weapon protruded slightly from beneath a disorderly pile of other daggers.

Pulling the weapon free, the Cimmerian grasped it by its blackened iron hilt and hefted it, checking its weight and balance. Forged for thrusting and throwing, the dagger had no crossguard. Its wide blade was nearly as long as Conan’s forearm. Nodding in approval, he slammed it into its heavy leather scabbard. The seams of the scabbard were secured by strips of beaten copper, tarnished over the years. With apparent fascination, Kailash watched Conan’s selection of this dagger.

“You would have me choose another?” the barbarian rumbled, wondering why Kailash was staring at him.

The hillman paused, then found his voice. “Nay, you are welcome to any that are here. That dagger is very old; it has been in the armoury for years beyond my memory. Eldran once told me that hundreds of years ago, it was given as a gift to King Maelcinis of Brythunia. Maelcinis never had a son to pass his weapons down to; his spirit may have guided your hand to this weapon. May he guide it as well in battle!”

Conan looked at the dagger dubiously, disliking this thought. He hoped that the spirit of Maelcinis would keep out of his affairs, especially in battle. After a moment’s hesitation, he decided to keep the dagger.

“With luck, you will not need your weapons and armour,” Madesus interjected, his voice showing irritation at the time being spent in the armoury.

Kailash snorted. “Luck is the armour of fools. Trust in it too often and your corpse will be buzzard-feed. In a battle, I trust naught but steel.” Conan grunted in agreement.

Madesus sighed, shaking his head, but a mild tone of mirth crept into his voice. “As you wish. Interesting, how two seasoned warriors can take longer to ready themselves for battle than a bride takes to ready herself for her wedding ceremony.”

Kailash’s face reddened, and Conan tensed at this insult. In Cimmeria, he would have split a man’s skull for making such a gibe. However, in his years of association with men outside his homeland, he had learned to suppress such urges. Kailash was ready to retort, but began to laugh instead when he saw the dark look on Conan’s face. The Cimmerian continued to scowl, while Madesus chuckled and the Brythunian hillman roared at Conan’s discomfort.

Wiping the tears from his face, Kailash clapped a beefy hand on Conan’s tensed shoulder and tilted his head toward the door. “The priest is right. We must tarry not, else we arrive late at the wedding!”

Conan gritted his teeth at this effrontery. Civilized men had a puzzling sense of humour. In an attempt to put a halt to further jesting, he pounded Kailash jarringly on the back, then followed him out of the armoury. In a lighter mood, the three men went to the stables, where sturdy Brythunian mounts awaited them with leather packs bulging with provisions. Wool riding-blankets, dyed dark green, were strapped across the backs of the reddish-black horses.

Kailash deftly flipped his blanket back, rolled it up, and tied it down securely. He vaulted onto his horse with a smooth, practice motion, holding the reins loosely in his left hand. Conan, who had less experience with horses, took a little while longer but was soon atop his steed. She was the largest of the three, her shoulders even in height with Conan’s head. Although she shifted a little as Conan settled onto her back, she bore his considerable weight with no visible strain.

Madesus, who had watched the others carefully, made several unsuccessful attempts to mount his horse. On the third try, he fell back heavily, landing squarely on his backside. To his embarrassment, Conan and Kailash found this mishap hilarious.

“I have ridden only a few times before, and that was in my youth,” the priest said in his defence as he put a hand to his bruised posterior.

“Priests of Mitra are accustomed to travelling on foot, not on the backs of beasts!”

Kailash’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Worry not, my friend. You will quickly remember how to ride. By the time we reach the Brythunian border, your backside will wish you had forgotten!”

After a careful check of their provisions, they took off at a trot, deciding to put off sleep for a while. Kailash suggested that they ride until several hours after sunset. He would lead them to an inn he knew of in the village of Innasfaln, by the foot of the western slopes of the Karpash Mountains. Conan was content with this arrangement if the inn was directly on their path to Skauraul’s stronghold. He had no objection to letting Eldran’s bag of gold pay for lodging, hot food, and a jack of ale or two.

He was more concerned with what their plan would be when they reached Shan-e-Sorkh. He had seen the region marked on the crude maps at the palace, and it had looked large to him. As they rode to the south-east, he again asked Madesus how they would make their way to Skauraul’s stronghold. He had no wish to spend endless dry, hot days on a fruitless search of that haunted desert wasteland.

“As I have explained, I can sense the Mutare’s presence,” the priest reiterated. “If I sense her not, we must put our faith in Mitra to lead us to her. Our cause is just, and when our steps falter, he will guide us. Leave this to me, and let it trouble you no more. I have underestimated the powers of the priestess one time too many, a mistake I will not repeat. She is resourceful, and will no doubt see us approaching when we are close. You and Kailash must be ready then to overcome whatever obstacles she may place in our path.”

Conan pressed Madesus further, somewhat dissatisfied with this vague response. The priest was unable, or unwilling, to answer his questions, so the barbarian eventually gave up. Kailash, riding a few lengths ahead of them, kept his eyes and mind focused on the road before them.

They had left the city gates quietly, hoping to attract no attention.

Kailash’s garb was that of a simple hillman, if somewhat better armed, and hillmen were a common enough sight at the city gates. Several of the guardsmen had recognized him and waved as he passed. Word had probably leaked out among the soldiery that Kailash was on some urgent mission at the king’s bidding.

In fact, Conan received most of the attention. The sight of a Cimmerian in Brythunia was rare indeed, but the sight of a mounted, blue-eyed giant of the north, accompanied by a Kezankian warrior and a priest of Mitra was enough to start the most reticent of tongues wagging. As it happened, the people were preoccupied with news of King Eldran, who was recovering rapidly from his illness. The trio of questers would soon be forgotten as later that night, the wineshops and fleshpots of Pirogia would fill with revellers drinking toasts to the king’s health and the end of the period of uncertainty that his near death had brought about.

In the days that followed, kings and politicians of the neighbouring kingdoms would greet this news with far less enthusiasm. Nemedia and her ally, Corinthia, had already been plotting invasions. King Yildiz of Turan, who would hear some two days later of Eldran’s miraculous recovery, would be in ill humour. for the remainder of the week. Yildiz’s imperial expansion plans had long included Brythunia, and he had been shifting troops and hiring mercenaries in anticipation of Eldran’s demise and the opportunity it might present.

Yet there was one who was already more upset than any of these kings would be. There was one who fumed and plotted, his cunning but twisted mind bent to a single dark purpose: revenge. He was hunched over the back of a reddish-black horse, outfitted with sacks of supplies and wearing the dark grey cloak of a Brythunian villager.

He rode south-east, in single-minded pursuit of the three who had shattered what might have been his last chance to restore Brythunia to its ancient splendour. As he followed their trail, Lamici began weaving together the threads of a new plot, which would bring about the death of a certain priest of Mitra and send those sword-wielding dogs to hell in the process.

The eunuch’s eyes, shielded by his hood, stared intently forward with the obsessed glaze of madness.

XV

Innasfaln

With Kailash leading Conan and Madesus through pastures of Brythunian countryside, the first leg of the trip passed quickly. Kailash knew the area so well that he needed no road, nor did he pause even once to get his bearings. Waning sunlight fell on the edges of deep green forests carpeting the northern horizon. These great woodlands thinned to the south, giving way to the grim, stony foothills of the Karpash Mountains.

They passed no villages, as the southern regions were only sparsely inhabited. Kailash had told them that the king of Zamora actually claimed much of this land, although he stationed no troops or made no garrison north of the mountains. The hillman took pride in this, and credited Zamora’s lack of military presence to Eldran’s influence.

Conan saw little worth claiming; the countryside was barren.

The sun had just dipped behind the Karpash’s looming peaks when Kailash called a halt. He scanned the rocky steppes of the mountainside as if looking for a landmark.

“The village is not far,” he said, nodding. “Two or three hours at most. We must soon dismount and lead our beasts up yonder.” He pointed to a rocky incline in the distance. “Beyond that rise lies Innasfaln.”

Their progress was impeded by fading light and uncertain footing. The terrain was rocky and steep at times, and Madesus had no skill in leading his horse through it. Eventually they reached a grassy knoll, with strange two-limbed trees growing atop it. Kailash came down off his steed, and the others did likewise. From here, they would go afoot.

They could make out a stony path leading away from the hillock, deep into the forbidding stone wall of the Karpash.

Madesus walked stiffly, leading his horse carefully along the path. He quickened his pace and moved up alongside the hillman. “Why is there a village in this isolated place?”

“There are but few passes through the mountains, and Innasfaln lies at the narrow mouth of one of them,” Kailash replied. “There we will get news of what to expect on the road to the south.” Then he winked slyly at Conan. “But we can anticipate getting more than just news—the taproom at Innasfaln is reputed to have the smoothest ale in Brythunia, and the lustiest wenches of easy virtue to pour it for us.” With amusement, he watched Madesus’s reaction to his comment.

“I see,” the priest said sceptically. “In that case, you two should make camp outside this village whilst I venture in to obtain news of the road. You have no time to waste on a drunken debauch this evening.

We must sleep as little as possible, for this I will tell you: the priestess sleeps not. Every moment we waste, her power grows and the odds of our victory diminish. Had I known—”

Kailash broke in with a chuckle. “Worry not, priest! I jest with you.

Conan and I are seasoned warriors; we can handle ourselves in this place. ‘Tis best that we stop at the inn for a flagon or two, lest we attract too much attention from the locals. I would as soon not arouse their curiosity. Besides, the innkeeper knows you not. Years ago, he and I were campaigners in the Brythunian border wars.”

Madesus conceded to the logic of the hillman’s argument, but again a hint of scepticism crept into his tone. “Very well, a jack or two, then we retire. Be warned that I shall rise a few hours before dawn and wake you both, regardless of your condition.”

This remark brought more chuckling from Kailash. Conan, who had listened with interest to the hillman’s description of the inn, was disappointed. He would have welcomed the hot embrace of a full-bosomed tavern harlot on a cold night like this. Several days had passed since he had been with Yvanna, and he did not see why a little revelry would slow down their progress. Let Madesus sleep while he and Kailash caroused in the taproom, or elsewhere, each in the arms of a willing wench!

When they reached the edge of the village, the only light in the sky came from the cold, white disk of the moon. The orb looked down upon them like a pale, frowning face. Nightfall had sent the temperature plummeting. The cold air bit at every uncovered patch of skin with unseen teeth, and the horses’ breath rose from their nostrils like steam from a boiling water pot.

Conan barely took notice of the chill; the Brythunian autumn was nothing like the bitter cold of his native Cimmeria. Kailash had pulled a hood over his head and put his helmet on over it. His thick hillman’s tunic kept the cold out, and he was from the north-east, where the weather was similar to Cimmeria’s. In spite of his robes and cloak, Madesus felt the chill most keenly. He had to admit that a warm inn appealed to him at the moment. Mitra would surely forgive him for venturing into a den of iniquity under these circumstances. Or so he hoped.

Innasfaln was a small village. They passed by several crude wattle-and-daub huts. Nearly all of them were apparently occupied.

Squatting in the centre of the village were half a dozen solid-looking structures, built of irregular chunks of stone and plugged with mud and pebbles. Kailash pointed to the largest of them. A Brythunian standard, out of place in such wretched surroundings, rose proudly from the building’s shabby roof. Several horses were tethered to a wooden rail by the front door.

The inn had no windows, and only a heavy, pitch-smeared tarp over its irregularly shaped doorway. Conan had been in seedier dives than this, but he had to admit that even the filthy, ill-kept Pommel outshone this wretched-looking hell-hole.

The three men dismounted and approached the rail. Conan and Kailash secured their horses to it and lifted the bags off, flinging them over their shoulders. Madesus was walking slowly, rubbing his bruised backside. Conan and Kailash laughed heartily at the priest’s discomfort.

“If you feel sore now, wait until tomorrow,” the hillman said. “You may wake before we do, but I’ll wager we’ll be back on our horses before you are!”

Still chuckling, Conan secured the small bag of gold to his belt. He passed two pieces of the coin to Kailash. “These are for—” he paused, sparing the priest a glance “—lodging.”

The Kezankian grinned, but shook his head. “If old Malgoresh is still here, we will drink free!” He doffed his helmet and stowed it in his pack, then pulled his hood back. Without another word, he shoved the tarp aside and entered. Conan followed him.

The Cimmerian’s doubts about the taproom proved ill-founded. The brightly lit room was good-sized, but overly crowded. Every bench was taken, and many people simply stood in clusters, or leaned against the rocky walls. As Conan and Kailash walked in, a few heads turned and a few conversations halted. Moments later, heads turned back and talk resumed, the regulars apparently indifferent to the two travellers after all.

“Look there!” Kailash pointed at a long, high wooden table in the back of the room. Behind the table stood a paunchy, grey-bearded man, dipping ale from a huge oak barrel. Many similar barrels lined the back wall. ‘“Tis Malgoresh, as I’d hoped!” Kailash ploughed through the mass of tightly packed bodies, with Conan close behind. A few sober patrons saw the men approaching and hastily stood aside.

Only a few tavern wenches were present, in spite of Kailash’s earlier comments. Many had long since seen their prime years pass, but a few caught the wandering eyes of the Cimmerian youth. He was surprised to find even a few beauties like these strutting about in this dung heap of an inn, hidden away in such a small, remote village.

“Hold a moment,” Conan said to the hillman, looking behind him with concern. “Madesus did not follow us in. We should wait until—”

“Bah! A priest in a taproom is like water on a fire. He may have given up and decided to find a room. Besides, I was only taunting him earlier, ‘ere we approached the village. The wenches here have lost some of their lustre. After a few tankards of ale and such fare as can be had at this hour, I’ll be ready for a night’s rest.” As Kailash spoke, a mischievous look came to his face. “If the priest comes in, we could have a jest at his expense. When we get to yonder table, let’s make eyes at a few of the barmaids. The expression on the priest’s face would be worth the tongue-lashing we’d no doubt get for our trouble!”

Priest or no priest, Conan would have liked to take the plan even further, but he supposed that he may as well go along with Kailash. He pushed aside a giggling drunk who blocked their way. With a balancing act that a skilled juggler would have envied, the tall and lanky villager managed not to spill a drop of ale. After one look at Conan, he decided to vacate his place at the table.

Kailash stepped up to the high table at the back of the tavern. Behind it, the balding barkeep plunked a few huge tankards of ale down and wiped his hands on the filthy, ale-stained apron tied loosely around his ample waist.

As he turned his bearded face toward them, looks of surprise and recognition came into his eyes. “By Hanuman’s hairy stones! ‘Tis me old friend Kailash, or I’m a Pict!” His throat, roughened from years of shouting at tavern-goers, roared with hoarse laughter. “Welcome to the finest tavern for a hundred leagues around!”

Kailash laughed uproariously. ‘“Tis the only tavern for a hundred leagues around, you old warhorse!” He pointed at Malgoresh’s sizeable waistline. “I see that you’ve guzzled a few barrels’ too many of your own brew. Have you swigged all of it tonight, or did you leave enough for two parched travellers?”

Malgoresh looked dubiously at Conan. “Two? Is he with you, or—”

“Speak no ill of him! His name is Conan, and he hails from the frozen lands of Cimmeria. Any sword raised against him would clash first with mine.”

“A Cimmerian, by Hanuman’s shaggy lingam! Strange must be the tale of his coming here, but methinks even stranger would be the tale of how you two became comrades.” Malgoresh scratched his chin thoughtfully, his expression becoming sombre. “What news from Pirogia?”

“The king’s health is restored.” Kailash leaned forward, glancing to either side and speaking in a hushed voice. “But Valtresca is dead—and Salvorus, too. The general was exposed as a traitor to the throne. In a pitched battle beneath the palace, Conan and Salvorus slew him.”

Malgoresh’s jaw dropped, as did the tankards he was setting down before them. Ale sloshed across the table and dripped onto the floor in foaming puddles. “A traitor!” he hissed, ignoring the spilt ale and bending forward to keep his coarse voice from reaching too many ears.

“What ill news you bear, old friend! Still, at least Eldran lives.”

“Yet he is not out of danger,” Kailash said grimly. “I have no time tonight to tell the full tale. If Mitra is with me, I will return to Innasfaln soon and relate it to you. ‘Tis a strange tale, in which Conan has played a great part. Only Mitra knows how it will end.

Tomorrow we travel south, and I have need of news from you before we leave.”

“Of course! Anything you wish to know. But how is it that Valtresca—”

“Enough, ‘Gor! No more questions will I answer until my dry throat is soothed by a few draughts of your ale. Have you forgotten our thirst, or has your head gone as soft as your belly?”

Malgoresh clapped a hand to his hairless forehead, clucking to himself.

He retrieved the dropped tankards and gave them a cursory wipe with his apron. After dipping them into the ale barrel, he set them down before the two travel-weary warriors.

Still standing outside, Madesus eyed the tavern’s door dubiously. He was having doubts about joining Conan and Kailash. Nevertheless, he supposed he should keep a watchful eye on them. He swallowed his misgivings and stepped inside, just as Conan and Kailash swallowed their first draughts of Innasfaln ale.

Within, the tavern was larger than Madesus had expected. However, everything else about the place was much as he had imagined. The pungent stench of unwashed bodies and stale beer intermingled with less easily identifiable odours. He believed that everyone in the village was jammed into the place. More than a dozen crudely made tables were packed with men of various age and origin. Madesus counted six barmaids, and some three-or four-score patrons. Many were laughing, or breaking into occasional off-key singing, while others hunched forward over their tables, trying to talk above the clamour.

Madesus was grateful for his travel cloak, which hid his true identity.

He supposed that the patrons in this place would have wondered what a priest was doing among them. He was not surprised to see Kailash and Conan swilling ale, like horses at a trough. As Madesus approached, they clanged their tankards together in a toast, then drank deeply of the thick, dark ale.

A buxom, blonde-haired peasant wench walked boldly toward the two men, her generous charms shifting suggestively beneath a flimsy garment of gauzy, red-dyed cotton. One of the villagers groped her firm, rounded behind as she strutted past; she giggled and swatted the man’s hand away, her attention focused on the two strangers.

Outraged by this wanton display, Madesus stomped toward his companions, intent on putting a stop to any licentious designs his comrades might have for this wanton harlot. He was so engrossed that he stumbled right into a short, stocky villager.

The man’s stinking breath assailed Madesus’s nostrils. The stench was vile enough to stop a charging bull in its tracks. The priest turned his head to one side, making a futile attempt to avoid breathing the cloud of fouled air that hung cloyingly about the man’s pitted, unshaven face and unwashed tangle of hair. “I beg your pardon,” he said politely to the grubby, pot-bellied villager.

“Huh! Wa’sh where ya goin’! Waddara, inna hurry, are ya?” The drunken cretin’s slurred speech was nearly unintelligible. He punctuated the question with a deep, reverberating belch, sending a reeking wave of air into the priest’s face. Madesus found it easier to determine what the man had been eating and drinking than what he was saying. However, to avoid provoking the besotted wretch any further, he simply stepped back and bowed slightly. The uncouth man staggered past, picking at his grimy ear with a dirt-encrusted finger and belching again.

By this time, Conan and Kailash had each found a voluptuous wench. The Cimmerian had thrown a brawny arm around the slender waist of a pale-skinned hussy, who ran her painted, long-nailed fingers through his mane of black hair. A dark-eyed doxy, wearing only thin cloth strips that covered very little of her smooth skin, exchanged bawdy gibes with Kailash. The warriors saw Madesus and waved, calling to him, but their voices were drowned out by the overwhelming din of the taproom.

Madesus dug into his satchel and carefully withdrew two heavy coins, golden dragons of Nemedia. Each was worth five Aquilonian gold nobles.

He palmed the thick coins and approached the two wenches, praying silently to Mitra that his idea would work.

“Ladies.” He managed to smile as he spoke, realizing that the word applied only loosely to these two. “Both of you… come hither, for just a moment.”

The women looked questioningly at Kailash and Conan, who shrugged and nodded their approval. Madesus put his hands where his companions could not see them and lowered his head slightly, whispering to the barmaids.

“My friends are poor, having diced their wealth away on our journey. I am loath to see two beauties like yourselves waste your evening for a few paltry silver pieces. Soon these two worthies will be too drunk to appreciate your charms anyway. My fortunes have been better, and I would share my luck with you.” He pressed a golden dragon upon each.

“Here, take these and retire from this place. You must share this coin with all the other barmaids. You and your friends need not waste this night on these ruffians here. Agreed?”

Wide-eyed, they stared at the golden dragons, more wealth than they would earn in a month of nights. They nodded, looking at Madesus blankly. One of them tossed her hair back and pressed against him, flirting. “Will ye not be joinin’ us, even later?” The sound of her husky, seductive voice and the sight of her full, rounded breasts, straining against their gauzy confines, would have raised a man from his deathbed.

Embarrassed by this brazen behaviour, Madesus pulled back a little, almost wishing that he were not a priest of Mitra. “Nay,” he said, shocked that he had been thinking any impious thoughts, even for a brief instant. “Our journey has been long, and I am fit for naught but sleep this night.” The women looked at each other, smiling coyly. They slipped away through the crowd and went out the door.

Madesus shook his head, silently asking Mitra for forgiveness. These warriors were a decadent influence. To think that for the cause of good, a priest of Mitra must lie and give away good gold to harlots! At times like this, he understood why so many priests took refuge in the haven of Mitra’s temples.

Conan and Kailash watched the priest, first with disbelief, then with wonder as all of the women trickled out of the taproom like sand from an hourglass. Madesus walked up to them with a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Well?” the priest asked, his eyes twinkling.

“Crom! What did you say to them?” Conan shook his head in disappointment.

“Aye. Why did they leave?” Kailash’s tone echoed the barbarian’s.

“I told them that you had no coin to offer for their favours,” the priest replied. “Further, we have no time for these diversions. When we have done away with the priestess, you will have plenty of time to pursue your depraved leisures. But for now, I implore you to keep about you the few wits you have. No doubt you have even forgotten to ask news of the road ahead.”

Conan scowled, and Kailash fixed his gaze on the floor. Then they broke out laughing. Madesus looked at them as if they had gone mad. This brought out even louder guffaws, until the two were roaring uncontrollably before the discomfited priest.

Although he found Madesus’s reaction amusing, Conan was truly disappointed. He was certain that Darinais, the golden-haired Brythunian trollop he had met, would have willingly bedded him without asking for so much as a copper farthing. He was younger and more vigorous than either Madesus or Kailash realized. A late-night romp with Darinais would have lifted his spirits. Ruefully, the Cimmerian began to wish that Madesus had not decided to come into the tavern.

Kailash drained his tankard and slammed it down on the table with a solid thump. He looked about for the barkeep, but did not see him anywhere. “Malgoresh!” His bellowing voice actually rose above the hubbub. “More ale!”

Behind the counter was the taproom’s rear door. Unlike the front door, it was made of stout, iron-backed wood. Crude but sturdy hinges anchored it to a thick, vertical column of wood set into the taproom wall. The door banged open and Malgoresh stepped through, red-faced and puffing, as if he had just out-raced a bloodthirsty Pict war party.

Braced on each of his immense Turanian shoulders was a barrel of ale, held in place by his burly arms.

“In a moment!” Malgoresh yelled back, setting the barrels down with a heavy thud. Beads of sweat had formed on his sharply hooked nose.

“Where in Zandru’s Nine Hells did me serving wenches go? I turn me back for a span or two and they go, without so much as a ‘by your leave’!”

Cursing, he haphazardly dipped tankards into ale barrels at a frenzied pace, setting them on the long, narrow table.

Patrons snatched up the tankards just as quickly as he put them down, leaving coins on the table. Without bothering to count these or to make change, the gruff Turanian barkeep scooped up the bits of copper and silver, dropping them deftly into his capacious belt purse. A continuous stream of oaths poured forth from him as he moved up and down the length of the table. When he finally caught up with the demand, he mopped his sweat-soaked face with his apron and sauntered back over to Kailash.

The hillman took a deep pull from his tankard. “Busy night,” he noted, then wiped foam from his moustache.

“Aye. Too busy. I’ve a mind to close early. Many years have passed since we last shared a barrel of ale. What say that you—both of you—join me?”

“Not tonight, my friend. The years have taught me that there are better places to pass the night than the floor of a tavern. Soon my companions and I must find rooms to retire to.”

“Companions?” Malgoresh’s eyes settled on Madesus. The priest’s cloak covered his religious garb, but the Turanian’s shrewd gaze took in a few conspicuous details: no weapons—not even a dagger—and simple, travel-worn garments. Yet the, man had not the look of a merchant or a noble. The Turanian’s instincts told him that this was some sort of sorcerer, or maybe a priest. Shaking his head, Malgoresh gave Kailash a dubious look. The Kezankian hefted his tankard and took another pull from it.

“This is Madesus, a—” the hillman paused, catching himself “—er, a friend from Corinthia,” he added lamely.

Madesus extended his hand to the barkeep, who took it and shook it vigorously. Madesus felt the bones in his hand grate together under the power of the Turanian’s grip. He fought the urge to wring his numbed fingers when the barkeep let go. “Well met, Malgoresh,” he managed. “We are grateful for your hospitality.”

“Think nothing of it.” The bald barkeep shrugged and turned to fill another tankard with ale. He set this down in front of the priest, who eyed it as if it were a fanged serpent, Malgoresh pretended not to notice this, but he was now convinced that Madesus was not just an ordinary traveller. “Kailash and I fought side by side in more than one border campaign. Why, our last campaign together seems like only days ago. There were but twenty of us, travelling along the southern banks of the Yellow River, when we were ambushed by that slave-raiding Nemedian bastard, Nekator. His numbers were thrice our own, and half our lads were cut down before we knew what had befallen us. That was a battle, by Hanuman’s woolly member! The water turned red and—”

Malgoresh’s tale was rudely interrupted by the arrival of a dirt-smeared lout, whose breath stank like a slaughterhouse on a hot summer day. He swayed unsteadily against the table, shoving in between Madesus and Conan. Snuffling noisily, he broke wind loudly enough for the sound to carry over Malgoresh’s voice. “Ale! Blast you, ale!” The boisterous lout slammed his empty tankard down forcefully, planting it squarely on the fingers of Conan’s left hand.

Conan pulled his hand back and growled in annoyance, elbowing the besotted patron in the gut. Madesus noted with despair that it was the same buffoon who had accosted him earlier.

“Ooomph!” the sodden cretin gasped as Conan’s elbow drove into his side. He staggered backward, nearly falling, but recovered his shaky balance with a superhuman effort. Snarling in drunken rage, he aimed a blow at Conan’s head with his tankard. The Cimmerian easily blocked the attack with one arm, and rammed an iron-hard fist into the man’s pockmarked face. Howling through his shattered jawbone, the drunkard was propelled backward from the force of the blow. Before he sank to the floor, the troublemaker pitched his tankard in Conan’s direction.

Through a cruel twist of fate, the haphazardly thrown missile sailed straight toward the barbarian’s face. Conan ducked to one side, putting a hand up to bat the tankard to the floor. The heavy iron vessel flew past his outstretched hand and crashed solidly into Kailash’s forehead.

The hillman remained conscious long enough to wish he had left his helmet on. Dazed by the bone-crushing impact, he lurched against the table, then dropped to the floor like a felled ox.

Angered that his friend had been struck, but wary that a brawl was brewing, Malgoresh yelled desperately at the two men. “Stop! Stop, I say! If fight ye must, then fight outside!”

Unfortunately, the Turanian’s words fell on deaf and drunk ears. Conan balled his hands into tight fists and drove them into his stunned opponent’s ribs. The unmistakable sound of breaking bones was followed by ear-splitting curses. Spitting out a few fragments of bloody teeth, the man yelled for help through his broken jaw. “Kulg! Wenak!” he wailed, sinking to the floor and retching noisily, his hands drawn up over his smashed rib cage.

At a table nearby, two heads turned. As the commotion spread through the crowd, conversations died down and a strange quiet settled in.

Kulg, a hulking brute of a man, looked up from his ale cup. He bore a strong resemblance to the injured Vansa, writhing on the floor before Conan, but was much larger and uglier than his brother. He was so hairy that many jests were made—behind his back, of course—about his probable ancestry. His shaggy black beard crept up his face and nearly covered his cheeks. Bushy eyebrows stuck out from below the thick ridges of his sloping forehead, and coarse hair sprouted from the neck of his ragged, ill-fitting tunic. Even compared to his brother, Kulg was not very bright. He was, however, quickly enraged by the sight of his kin on the floor, spewing blood and twitching in agony.

Beside him, Wenak slid a small, well-honed knife out of its sheath and palmed it. Wenak was nothing like his older brothers; he was small, mean, and cowardly. Keeping his eyes on Conan, he readied his throwing knife and waited for the Cimmerian to turn his back.

Kulg’s tactics were much more direct. Growling in bestial fury, he raised his immense bulk from the groaning bench that had borne his weight. Holding his hairy, long-nailed fingers out, he rushed straight at Conan.

As a veteran of many tavern fights, the barbarian reacted instinctively, sidestepping the shaggy giant and tripping him as he lumbered past. Kulg collided with the high table and proved to be more than a match for the heavy wood. The table flipped over, toppling Malgoresh and sending ale and tankards flying. The flailing Turanian groaned in dismay as he landed on the floor, pinned beneath the table.

Madesus, upset by the turn of events but powerless to stop them, moved around to examine the dent in Kailash’s head.

Turning, Conan grabbed one of Kulg’s treelike arms and twisted it behind the big man’s back, in the same motion, he kicked the back of Kulg’s knee and drove him to the taproom floor. Both men landed on the table, bringing another groan from Malgoresh, who bore the brunt of the impact. Wenak, seeing a chance to bury his shiv in Conan’s unprotected back, drew his hand back in a smooth, well-practiced motion.

Madesus caught the glint of steel as Wenak made ready to throw the knife. “Conan! Behind you!” he gasped, jumping toward Wenak desperately, hoping to spoil his aim.

Wenak hesitated for a moment, nearly deciding to cast his knife at this onrushing green-cloaked stranger. Instead, he hastily threw it at Conan, then turned nimbly to make an escape.

The Cimmerian heard Madesus’s warning cry, but had no way to roll out of the knife’s path. Wenak’s throw was high; the weapon sailed through the air several feet above Conan and sank into one of Malgoresh’s empty ale barrels. With renewed fury, Conan grabbed the back of Kulg’s head and pounded the man’s hairy face repeatedly into the bottom of the wooden table.

A helpful patron stuck his foot out as the fleeing Wenak ran by, sending him flying into a table. Wenak rolled off and crawled underneath. The table’s annoyed occupants chose to blame the loss of their ale on the patrons of a nearby table. Within moments, the fighting spread through the taproom like a brushfire through a dry prairie.

XVI

Departure

Lamici reached Innasfaln about an hour after Conan, Madesus, and Kailash had arrived. The eunuch cautiously approached the village, leading his horse to the tavern at the centre. Many years had passed since he had travelled this far from the city, and never had he travelled so far alone. His bones ached and he was miserably cold, but not once did his determination wane. Now more than ever, he was bent to the singular purpose of vengeance.

The eunuch’s cadaverous appearance would have shocked those at the palace who knew him. His gaunt, haggard face had the look of a man twenty years older. His eyes, normally cool and placid, were fervent and bloodshot. The skin beneath them was dark and sagging, as if Lamici had not slept for several days. Nevertheless, the same obsession that had driven him to this state gave him the energy to go on. He had ceased to think of his own future, or of any future beyond the death of those who had shattered his lifelong dreams.

They were here. He could see their horses tied to a rail out side the tavern. A terrific racket issued from the building’s crude doorway.

Alarmed, Lamici circled to the back of the structure, lashing his horse to a nearby tree. He listened carefully, trying to pick out the voices of his quarry. All he could hear were the mixed sounds of wood breaking and men shouting. He pulled his hood down over his face as far as it would go, warily approaching the tavern’s doorway.

Lamici entered, and his fears of being noticed proved unfounded. The taproom was a frenzied melee of punching, kicking, and shouting bodies.

He veered around a pair of drunken clods who were cheerfully pulping each other, and stopped in a less chaotic corner. From this vantage point, he scanned the large room, hoping for a glimpse of his prey.

At the opposite side of the room, less than thirty feet away, he saw Conan. The barbarian was struggling with some hairy, apelike brute who was even taller than the Cimmerian. He could not see Madesus or Kailash. Trusting to his disguise, he inched along the wall, closer to the barbarian. A flying iron goblet clanged off the wall before him, and he was forced to step over a few bodies that had been rendered senseless during the brawling. He guessed that there were over two-score combatants slugging it out in the small taproom. The ruckus afforded him perfect cover. No one noticed him as he moved closer and closer to the back of the room, where Conan and Kulg still struggled.

The Cimmerian was amazed that Kulg was conscious. He had beaten the man’s head into the bench, slammed him into the stone wall, and had probably broken one of the hairy giant’s arms. In spite of this abuse, the tenacious Kulg kept getting up and charging the barbarian head-on.

As Kulg rushed at him again, Conan braced himself for the bone-jarring impact. If the stubborn ape would not lie down after this exchange, Conan would have to draw his sword and take sterner measures.

As Kulg reached out for him, Conan twisted aside and prepared to send his assailant flying. At that instant, he felt a tug at his ankle, and his balance was spoiled. Vansa had managed to stop retching and clutching his broken ribs long enough to grab hold of Conan’s leg. The Cimmerian kicked at the interfering hand, dislodging it as Kulg ploughed into him. Grunting, Conan toppled over and soaked up Kulg’s crushing weight. Enraged, the Cimmerian groped futilely for his sword.

Only a few paces away, Madesus was trying unsuccessfully to revive Kailash. The iron tankard had dug an ugly groove in the hillman’s tough skull, and blood still oozed from a flap of skin that had been torn from Kailash’s forehead. The priest was cursing himself for not having tried harder to keep his two companions out of this place. He had been against the dalliance from the start.

With a sigh, Madesus fished around in his spacious leather pouch and extracted a small clay jar of ointment. He daubed the balm generously on the ugly gash to stop the bleeding. Probing the wound gently, his skilled fingers found a crescent-shaped break in the hillman’s skull.

This wound would be much more difficult to tend; to save Kailash, he would have to use the amulet. “Malgoresh!” he shouted to the Turanian, who was still freeing himself from the wreckage of a table.

“How bad is he?” the panting barkeep asked as he crawled over the table to the priest.

“He lives, but we must carefully move him to a safer place, where I can mend his cracked skull.”

Together, they slowly pulled the hillman to the back corner of the taproom. Madesus drew forth his amulet, shielding it from all in the room but Malgoresh. The Turanian’s eyes widened.

“Tell no one what you have seen,” the priest cautioned.

Malgoresh licked his lips and got to his feet. “Nary a word, I swear by the hair on Hanuman’s—”

“Watch me no more! Try to stop the fighting, while your tavern still stands.” Madesus turned away and laid one palm on the Kezankian’s gore-smeared brow. In his other hand, he held the amulet. Closing his eyes, he began the chant of healing.

Malgoresh limped over to Conan and Kulg. His legs throbbed painfully where the table had struck them. He saw that Kulg had trapped the Cimmerian with his vast bulk and was smothering the breath out of him.

Malgoresh selected a heavy plank from a ruined table, which he used to bludgeon the back of Kulg’s hirsute head.

His swing whacked solidly against the base of Kulg’s granite-hard skull. The dense oak board made a booming thud as it struck, but Kulg did not even flinch. Eyes agog in disbelief, Malgoresh swung the thick plank again, bearing down with all his strength. This time Kulg let out a deep growl and stopped throttling Conan long enough to rub the back of his bruised head.

Gasping for breath, the Cimmerian wasted no time in squirming out from under the giant’s deadly clutches. He kneed the stubborn Kulg in the forehead, while Malgoresh brought his wooden maul down hard on the man’s spine. Kulg, reeling from the abuse, got slowly to his knees, trying to focus his badly blurred vision. Malgoresh aimed another blow at him, but the wounded giant somehow managed to put his good arm out and catch the end of the plank in his hand. He yanked on it, trying to wrest it from Malgoresh’s grasp. The Turanian hung on tightly, but got only a handful of splinters for his trouble.

Brandishing his new weapon, Kulg tottered in place, pausing to decide which foe to strike first. Conan immediately closed his hand around his sword-hilt and raised the blade with grim ferocity. Malgoresh backed off, turning to retrieve Wenak’s knife from the ale barrel.

Crouching unseen less than ten feet away, Lamici chose this moment to make his move. All backs were to him, including Madesus’s. The priest wore no leather jerkin to turn aside Lamici’s point. The eunuch advanced on the unsuspecting priest, who chanted over Kailash in the corner of the taproom. The high table, lying on its side, hid him partially from view. Lamici slid along the wall, reaching up his sleeve for the concealed stiletto. He was close enough to hear the priest’s soft chanting. He freed the stiletto from its wrist sheath, then froze as the priest suddenly became silent.

Madesus finished the prayer of healing and opened his eyes. Kailash coughed, stirring weakly. The priest heard a sharp hiss from behind his back and looked over his shoulder in time to see a thin tongue of steel plunging toward him. Alarmed, he sprang up, but could not avoid the blade’s deadly arc. As he pivoted, the stiletto slashed open his left arm and bit into his shoulder. He reached out, his fingers grabbing hold of Lamici’s sleeve. The wound in his shoulder was shallow; he would easily heal it later.

Lamici let out a hissing laugh between clenched teeth. “Meet thy doom, fool! Pay the price for thy crimes against my country!”

A torrent of unbearable agony suddenly coursed through Madesus’s veins.

Poison! The priest fell to the floor, dropping his amulet. As Lamici grabbed it, the amulet flared up brightly, searing his palm and blinding him. With the amulet in one hand and his stiletto in the other, the eunuch pulled back, pivoted, and beat a hasty retreat. The amulet cooled, and its light subsided. He stuffed it into a pocket of his cloak and felt his way along the taproom wall, until he reached the doorway.

Madesus clutched vainly at his healer’s pouch, praying desperately to Mitra as the searing pain from the shoulder wound spread into his heart. Convulsing, he tried to cry out for help, but no air would come from his still lungs. Praying silently to Mitra, he closed his eyes and quietly departed from the world of mortal men.

Conan whirled as he saw the flash of light, and wrenched his dripping, gore-stained blade from Kulg’s motionless corpse. Ten feet from him, a grey-cloaked form was moving rapidly along the wall, clutching a thin-bladed knife in one hand. The barbarian drew in a sharp breath as he looked toward the back corner of the taproom, his mind reeling with shock. The overturned table blocked most of his view, but lying in plain sight was Madesus’s limp, outstretched arm. All around it was a rapidly spreading pool of blood.

Acting purely on impulse, Conan made straight for the fleeing, grey-hooded knife-wielder. The Cimmerian plunged like a stampeding bull through the sparring villagers. He gained quickly; his dark-garbed quarry moved uncertainly, groping along the wall like a blind man, unaware that Conan was looming nearby. The barbarian’s face was a dark thundercloud of fury, and he uttered the bone-chilling war cry of his native Cimmeria as he closed the distance. He was near enough to see blood still glistening wetly on the knife, and he had no doubt that the blood was the priest’s.

Conan extended his sword in preparation for a thrust that would skewer the man like a boar on a spit. At that instant, the irksome Wenak, still cowering beneath a table, stuck his foot out. The Cimmerian lost his sword first, then his balance. The blade clattered to the floor, several feet away from the sprawling Cimmerian, as Lamici slipped out of the doorway and into the night.

Enraged, the frustrated Cimmerian went berserk. Glaring through the red mist that swam before him, he seized Wenak by the ankle and hauled him out from under the table. Wenak screamed shrilly, squirming in his captor’s vice-like grip.

“Motherless whelp! Join your brother in hell!” Conan heaved Wenak up and dashed his head against the taproom’s hard stone wall. Wenak’s skull burst open with a sickening, muffled crack, like the splintering of rotting timber, and left an odious smear of reddish-grey pulp on the wall.

Conan’s blood raced through his veins; his temples throbbed with hot fury. He snatched his dropped sword from the floor and heaved a table out of his way, intent on finding and slaying the priest’s attacker.

Behind him, a battle-crazed villager was swinging a sizeable chunk of wood, striking wildly at everyone who came within his reach. Raising up his crude but effective weapon, he landed a mighty blow on the base of the oblivious Cimmerian’s neck. So forceful was the blow that the wood splintered on impact. Conan took several faltering steps toward the door before tumbling to the taproom floor, still clenching his sword.

He crawled for a few more feet before his eyes closed and his head sagged against the frame of the doorway.

When Conan awoke, the morning sun had already climbed into the eastern sky. It shone through the window in his room at Malgoresh’s inn.

Startled, the disoriented Cimmerian lurched to his feet and instinctively groped for his sword. Then the memory of last night’s ill-boding events returned to him. He slumped back down on the crude cot he had been sleeping on and rubbed his aching neck, wincing as his fingers found a lump the size of a date protruding from the base of his skull.

Conan’s head was pounding like a Pictish war drum. He felt queasy from rising so quickly, but he managed to rise again and shuffle across the floor toward a bowl of water he had seen in the corner. From the room’s appearance, he judged that he was in one of the village’s stone buildings, maybe the inn next to the tavern.

He downed a few swallows of water and poured the rest of it over his throbbing head. He had no idea of who or what had felled him, but he hoped that his attacker had fared worse. Gratified to find his sword leaning against the wall, he picked up the weapon and moved on. By some miracle, his pouch of gold still hung from his belt. Silently he thanked Crom for giving him the strength to recover so quickly from last night’s foray. With sword in hand and a bag of gold at his belt, the Cimmerian’s spirits were lifted somewhat.

He found that his judgement had been correct; he had spent the night in one of the inn’s cottages. The taproom was less than thirty paces distant. He saw a small cluster of villagers milling about by the taproom’s main door and wondered what had become of Kailash and Malgoresh.

Madesus, he felt with grim certainty, had not survived last night’s encounter. The sight of the priest’s limp arm, with its pale hand thrusting out from a blood-soaked sleeve, filled him with rage and despair. His heart burned like a fiery coal at the memory, and a voice inside him cried out for revenge. He would find Madesus’s assailant and deal with him later. First he would see what had happened to Kailash.

The taproom’s main doorway had been barricaded. A few sullen looks were cast at Conan by several of the villagers, who lowered their voices and moved away as the Cimmerian approached. Two old men remained, staring at him as he came closer. The barbarian doubted that these two grey-beards had been in the taproom last night.

“Where is Malgoresh?” he asked gruffly, being in no mood to exchange pleasantries.

One of the men harrumphed indignantly at Conan’s tone and did not answer. The other, whose craggy face was as roughened and weather-worn as the Karpashian Mountains themselves, paused before responding.

Leaning forward on a worn walking-stick, the old man finally spoke, through a mouth entirely bereft of teeth.

“Inside. Been ‘oled up in there for th’ whole o’ th’ mornin’,” he told Conan, his tone indifferent and his words barely understandable.

Conan stepped past them, stopping at the wooden barricade. He pounded on it with his fist, bellowing Malgoresh’s name in a voice loud enough to crack stone. Impatiently, he shoved the heavy wooden barricade back and stomped into the taproom.

Malgoresh stood inside, his pale face and slumped shoulders conveying much news to the Cimmerian. The Turanian had evidently been making a half-hearted effort to clean up the taproom. “I put up the barrier last night to keep everyone out,” he said. “There is a back door, if you would have waited—”

“Never mind the barrier.” Conan barged in. “Where are Kailash and Madesus?”

“I took you and Kailash to separate rooms last night, to let you recover from your wounds. I’ve no doubt that he still sleeps. His wound was dire enough to send a lesser man to the grave. That blow you took would have stopped a charging boar in its tracks. Yet here you stand!”

“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 brawl—it 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 two—the east and the west roads. On foot, a good many more.”

“Find out if anyone has seen a grey-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 us—or Eldran—we 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 amulet—gone? 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!”

XVII

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 meagre 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 sun-baked fruit. Hearing their voices, she turned toward them, but clearly was unable to see their faces.

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 winds—bent, 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 from—”

“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 sceptically. Malgoresh crossed his arms and lifted his gaze toward the sky. Deciding to humour. 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 hoof prints 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 vigour 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 path-finding, 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 travellers, 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 ageing, 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 favoured 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 travelled 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 ale skin 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 lives, 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 rumours 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!”

“Not from a Cimmerian,” Conan said confidently.

“Why not return with me to the city?” Kailash offered. “We need a new captain, and the pay is better than you may think.” He pointed at the bag of coins tied to Conan’s belt. “You already have seen how generous Eldran can be, and the women…”

Conan shook his head. “Nay. There are women in Zamora, too. Caged in your city, I would grow restless, with nothing to do but crack together a few drunken skulls every day and yell at witless city guardsmen. A ten-year-old boy from my clan could best any of them!”

Kailash was about to protest, but his esteem of the guards was only a little higher than Conan’s. He gave up the conversation and chanced to glance down. He nearly fell off his horse in surprise at what he saw, “Look!”

Conan reined in and turned his mount back. A fresh mound of horse droppings lay on the path near Kailash’s horse.

“Lamici’s mount?” Kailash conjectured.

“Or the spoor of some other traveler’s beast,” Conan said, but without conviction.

Both men kicked their horses into a trot, believing that they had picked up Lamiei’s trail again. They strained to watch the path, maintaining as much vigilance as possible under the moon’s faint light.

When the clouds dissipated completely, they could see a few of the brighter stars, looking down on them from the black sky.

They rode on for hours, pushing forward with all the speed they could muster. They saw nothing else to confirm that Lamici had passed through, but they stubbornly continued. Finally they agreed to stop and sleep for a few hours, to let the horses rest. Laying down their saddle-blankets, they flung themselves to the ground and were fast asleep in moments.

They were closer to Lamici than they realized. The eunuch had ridden hard after fleeing the village. Half-blinded by the light from the priest’s strange amulet, Lamici had panicked. He had wondered if Conan would pursue him; if he had not been blinded, he would have crouched by the door and waited for the stupid barbarian to come out and feel the deadly sting of his stiletto. His vision had been slow to return, and he had stumbled along the outer wall of the tavern, searching in the dark for the tree where he had tied his horse.

When he had found it, his nerves were screaming in raw fear. He had taken too long; the Cimmerian would be on him like a bloodhound!

Frantically, he had mounted the horse and kicked it into a full gallop.

He had ridden east for several hours before realizing in what direction he was going. His vision had returned, but not his nerve. If he turned around, he risked a head-on confrontation with Conan and any allies the Cimmerian may have with him.

On the other hand, if he continued east, he might find a place wherein to conceal himself. If the Cimmerian passed by, Lamici could hide in silence until Conan was safely gone. Satisfied with this plan, he had continued eastward. He soon discovered the problem with this, though: the path afforded no hiding places. On all sides were rocks or closely clustered trees; he had not the strength to climb or break through them. Frustrated, he had kept going, clinging to the idea of finding a safe place in which to hide.

The eunuch made slower progress than Conan and Kailash had; he had far less skill in navigating the difficult path. He still kept his lead, however, since he was not pausing to track as were the other two. He was glad that the rocky trail left few traces of his passing, and was careful to steer away from any dirt that would leave a tell-tale hoof print.

Now, less than three leagues away from Conan and Kailash, Lamici slept.

Unlike the sound sleep of his pursuers, his rest was troubled by a strange dream. In the dream, he was a small grey mouse in the middle of an open field. The field surrounded him for as far as he could see, affording no cover.

He was being chased. It was night time, so he could not discern what was hunting him, but it flew overhead, seeking him out. He heard the leathery sound of its flapping wings, and its shrill, far-off cry. He froze in terror and gazed upward, trying to fathom what pursued him.

All he could see was a huge single eye, bearing down on him. It was dark red, with a black slit of a pupil in the centre. He waited for the inevitable doom to descend upon him, unable to move. He felt sharp claws and jagged teeth sinking into his frail form, tearing him to pieces.

Lamici awoke with a scream. He looked up, as he had in the dream, but there was no eye, just the bone-white, neutral orb of the moon.

Trembling, he breathed a sigh of relief. Looking around, he saw only his horse, tethered to a tree. He was about to lie down again when a strange, azure-blue glow caught the corner of his eye.

It came from inside his leather pouch, which lay on the ground beside him. He unwound the cord that secured the pouch’s closing and peered inside. The priest’s amulet was glowing faintly. Lamici frowned, rummaged through his gear for some dark cloth, and wound it around the amulet in several layers. Having stifled the glow, he tucked the strange object back into the pouch. He had just finished tying the cord when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

“Good evening, Lamici.” A strangely echoing female voice filled his ears. He whirled around to face her.

“Azora!” he cried out in shock. “Here? How—”

“‘How’ is not important. Listen closely to me, and do as I tell you.”

The Mutare stood before him, cloaked in black, barely visible in the dark of night. The moon shone on the pale skin of her face, partially shadowed by her cloak’s hood. Beneath the darkness of her hood, he could see her dark red eyes. Her lips gleamed redly in the moonlight, as if smeared with fresh blood. The long sleeves of her cloak covered her hands, and the hem of the cloak rested on the ground.

“Of course, Priestess. I am at your service, as always. I beg of you to answer me one question. Why does Eldran still live?”

“Strong are the forces that protect him. The priest, Madesus, bears a talisman that interferes with my magic.”

“No longer, Priestess. I have slain him! Last night, in the village, I struck him down with my envenomed dagger.”

“Truly?” Her eyes bored into his, as if she was fathoming the depths of his memory to see if he lied. Then her lips parted in a grim smile of victory, and she laughed chillingly. “Well done, eunuch! Then only one task remains for you. Bring his talisman to me—the amulet he bore. Its powers are ancient and deadly. Without its power, no one—not even a priest of accursed Mitra—can stand before me!”

Lamici smiled. “I have it with me, Priestess. I took it from his dead hand.” Triumphantly, he picked up his leather pouch and extracted the cloth-wrapped amulet.

Azora backed away a few paces. “Wait! I cannot look upon it now. It has powers of its own, even without the priest to wield it against me. You must continue along the path you are on, and bear south when you reach the eastern slopes of the Kezankians. Guard the talisman! Bring it to my fortress in the Shan-e-Sorkh. There, I have the power to destroy it.”

Lamici’s expression revealed his confusion.

“I am not here in the flesh, you fool!” Azora explained impatiently.

She reached out her hand to the eunuch and passed a black-nailed finger completely through him. “You see only a reflection. So vast is my power that I cast it from far away.”

Lamici struggled to grasp the idea, then spoke again. “How will I find your fortress? I have never travelled so far south or east.”

“I shall send my reflection again when you bear south. Bring me the talisman, and tarry not. After I destroy it, Eldran will die. This time nothing will prevent his death!”

“There is one more problem, Priestess. Conan and Kailash still live.

They escaped from the trap in the temple, and even now, they follow me.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed Azora’s face. In better light, the eunuch would have also seen her momentary expression of doubt. “They must not catch you. There is little I can do to protect you from them until you are closer to my fortress. Ride swiftly! Hundreds of leagues still separate us, and you must close the distance. Keep the talisman hidden!”

The image of Azora vanished, as the moon was blocked by a thin layer of clouds drifting into the night sky. Lamici rubbed his eyes, yawned, and gathered his gear. He would reach Azora with the amulet. He would salvage his hopes with her help. No matter the cost to him, he would stay ahead of his pursuers and lead them to their doom. Laughing, he galloped eastward, leaving the two sleeping warriors many leagues behind him.

XVIII

The Sleeper in the Sand

Azora was levitating a few feet above the floor of the library within Skauraul’s fortress. Languidly she lowered herself to the plushly carpeted but cold floor. She sat there motionless, looking more like a figure in a painting than one in real life.

For some hours she had floated thusly, searching the ethereal spirit world for signs of Madesus’s amulet. Her body, left behind in the material world, did not inhale or exhale, nor did her crimson eyes blink even once. Her mortal shell had simply hovered mindlessly, serving only as a tether for the intangible cord of her spirit.

Eventually she had returned from the ethereal lands, having found what she sought.

She had learned the ways of ethereal travel from the tomes in Skauraul’s vast arcane library. There were hundreds of volumes there, filled with long-forgotten secrets of dark, sorcerous arts. Her first sight of the library had struck her with awe. It was the greatest she had ever seen, a storehouse of arcane knowledge. She had gleaned from Xim that many treasure-vaults were hidden in Skauraul’s stronghold, but these had not interested her. To her, the library’s worth was far greater than that of all the gems and gold in the fortress.

Xim had refused to accompany her into the repository. Anxious to explore the works within, she had not cared what Xim did. She had left him in the hall outside, dismissing him as she had looked over the many shelves full of ancient books, and the neatly organized racks of scrolls. The library was vast, with a ceiling over twenty feet high and every inch of wall space taken up by shelves and racks. A dozen storehouses in darkest Stygia would not equal it.

The first volume she had chosen to study was Skauraul’s personal grimoire. The immense tome rested on an oddly shaped table, built entirely of human bones. Its covers had been made of beaten copper, now badly tarnished with age. The gilt-edged pages inside were thick and yellowed, but not yet crumbling. The first two thirds of the volume were tightly packed with script written in Skauraul’s spidery hand.

Thousands of words filled each expansive page, but unlike similar texts she had perused, this one contained no drawings or diagrams. The pages themselves had given off a queer glow, dim but bright enough to read by, even if the room was pitch black. Curiously, the remaining third of the book had been empty.

She had scanned through the last few pages before this empty section.

They were written in a language unknown to her. Exasperated, she had flipped back through the book until she had found a section she could read. For hours she had pored eagerly over Skauraul’s writings.

Eventually her deep thirst had been temporarily quenched, and she had decided to practice some of the arts described in the vast tome.

The most intriguing of these had been the art of ethereal travel.

Physical distances meant nothing in the strange world of the ethereal, where she could send her spirit thousands of leagues away in the wink of an eye. Carefully, she had made the incantations necessary to free her spirit from her body. At first the spell had not worked, but after repeated attempts, she had begun her journey into the dreamy, intangible realm of the ethereal.

Skauraul had written that one’s ethereal spirit could look upon events in the material world and yet remain unseen to those in that world.

Azora had decided to see what had become of the fool Madesus and the two bumbling warriors in the temple, where she had laid a trap. Where she should have found their torn, gashed bodies, there had been nothing. Perturbed, she had next sought Balberoth, to see if he had utterly destroyed them. As she willed her spirit to seek him, she had been taken on a terrifying journey through the dark, chaotic layers of the abyss itself.

Balberoth’s formless spirit had been sent to a special pit in hell, reserved for demons who are banished from the physical world. She had read of the existence of such a pit, but words had not done it justice.

The place was a mind-numbing chaosium, filled with endlessly screaming, tormented wraiths, who would writhe in impotent fury for all eternity.

Shuddering, Azora had withdrawn her spirit from the pit, back to the library.

How could Balberoth have failed? The priest Madesus had not the strength to resist a demon of the Elder Night, who was nearly as powerful as a lesser god. Shaken, Azora turned the question over in her mind, seeking an answer. Mitra himself must have intervened, for only a god had the power to banish a demon of the Elder Night. If Mitra was with Madesus, the priest posed more of a threat than she had originally thought. Determined to find him, she had re-entered the ethereal world and begun searching.

Instead of finding Madesus, her spirit had located Lamici. The insane old fool was sleeping beside a road that cut through the Karpash Mountains. Azora did not understand why her spirit had been drawn to the eunuch, but she decided to enter his dreaming mind and awaken him, a fascinating technique that Skauraul had described in great detail.

When the screaming eunuch had risen, she had decided to question him.

What she had learned both gratified and confounded her. At least the priest was dead; the eunuch had stopped his heart with a deadly poison.

She had used the potion herself in the past, and knew that its effects were irreversible. By luck, the eunuch had also seized the priest’s amulet.

She was uncertain of what role the amulet had played in this affair, but she knew how dangerous the talisman was to her. It was the last magic remnant of Xuoquelos, one of the Mutare’s most bitter enemies.

She was certain that the amulet had prevented her death-spell from striking down Eldran, and perhaps it had even kept the priest safe from Balberoth.

Lamici would bring her the amulet. She dared not touch it herself, nor even look upon it, but she did know how to render it harmless. When immersed in the blood of a man with no soul, the talisman would lose its power. Lamici would serve this purpose; when she had first met him, she had begun to take his soul away. Since a man thus deprived fears nothing, she had left him a little of his soul, intending to extract all the torment she could from him when he had become useless to her.

His fear would bring him to her. Her only concern was over the two warriors. If they managed to catch the eunuch, they might use the amulet against her, or bring it to one who knew the extent of its powers. As long as Lamici kept ahead of them, she was safe. She could do nothing to the warriors when they were so far away, but soon they would come within her sphere of influence.

Without the priest or the amulet to protect them, she would easily cut them down. They could not harm her for she could not be slain by ordinary steel. She would torment and weaken them, and feed them to the spiders in the chamber far below. She had decided to keep these children of Zath as pets. Xim, however, she did not trust. She would eventually dispose of him, too, but at present, he was the least of her concerns.

Time was on her side. At full gallop, Lamici and his pursuers would not enter the Shan-e-Sorkh for a week. She would put the time to good use, to absorb Skauraul’s magical writings. She would avidly seek the most powerful of the ancient Mutare’s secrets: immortality. Of all the mages who had searched for this most precious secret, only Skauraul had ever unearthed it. The historical accords she had read told of his being vanquished before he could complete the rituals required to attain immortality. She would not suffer a similar fate; there was no one alive to stand in her way.

Returning to the bone-table and the dire volume resting upon it, Azora began reading fervently, as if in a trance. Inscribed somewhere within its copper-bound pages was the key to eternal life. She started with the first page. She would not rest until she found it.

Xim crouched outside the library’s door, waiting. Scar, the ancient master, had told him that one day the female would come.

“She will have eyes like mine,” he had said. “Show her the secret way past the old ones, and take her to the top of the long stair. Follow her not into the Thalamus Arcanus! Hide yourself in the hollow above the door and await my return. So that you may show her the way when she comes, I grant you the power of speech.”

When he had finished speaking, Scar had touched Xim with a long, black-nailed finger, altering the arachnid’s mind and body to give him the use of words.

Later that same day, a strange, white-haired man had come to the fortress, calling out the ancient master’s name. The man carried with him a long, silver spike. Xim remembered the master’s words as he had opened the door and gone out to confront the visitor: “The fool thinks I can be killed,” Scar had muttered. “He knows not how deeply I have dug my roots. Even if his ill-conceived plan works, he cannot destroy me utterly. In a few centuries, when he is but dust in a forgotten crypt, I shall return to trouble the world again.”

Scar had charged Xim to remain in the fortress’s antechamber until the female came. Without further words, the master had left the fortress and gone out into the desert to confront the white-haired man.

Through the open fortress door, Xim had impassionately watched their brief and terrible struggle. Eventually the white-haired stranger had impaled Scar upon the silver spike. As he did so, Scar’s body had simply turned to dust, which had quickly been scattered by the continually blowing desert wind. The force of the wind had increased until it had become a howling gale. The stinging sand forced the stranger to back away from the fortress; it shut the heavy stone door that Xim had been looking through. The sand storm blew about the fortress for many months, keeping away looters and curious explorers.

When the wind had died down, the fortress had been completely covered.

No trace of its existence remained.

Throughout the centuries, the ageless Xim had patiently waited for the female to arrive, faithfully keeping his sleepless vigil at the fortress’s doorway. Slowly the xanthuous dunes had shifted, lifting the sandy shroud that had draped the fortress for so long. By then, its existence was remembered only in a few dusty scrolls or seldom-read books. Some considered it mere legend, as no one living had ever claimed to have seen it.

As Azora feverishly perused Skauraul’s ancient manuscript, and Xim crept quietly into the hollow above the door, the sands outside the fortress had begun to stir again. This time there was no wind blowing them hither and thither; they swirled and moved about like swarms of tiny insects. Only a select few grains moved, all from a small, localized area. Some rose from the ground briefly, only to fall back down.

Hours passed; the sun climbed into the cloudless desert sky, then dipped below the western horizon. With every hour that went by, more grains of sand became animated, until a small, dusty maelstrom was formed several dozen paces from the fortress’s stony door. Speck by speck, it grew. By late that following evening, it was nearly seven feet in height. Whirling and spinning, the funnel of sand twisted toward the fortress door, guided by some unseen intelligence.

It stopped when it reached the portal, stretching and changing in shape. A naked humanoid form became visible from the feet up, as if the flesh was pouring into the funnel from an invisible pitcher. Gradually the dusty granules became one with the form, and the whirling funnel of sand disappeared. Before the door of his fortress stood the most powerful Mutare in history, born anew. Skauraul’s deep, rumbling laughter echoed across the desolate steppes. Extending a hand, he pushed the heavy stone door open with ease, as if it had been a gossamer veil.

His bare feet made no sound as he walked inside, crossing the antechamber in a few powerful strides. His smooth, pale-skinned body was well muscled, and proportioned almost too perfectly. His complexion was flawless; only a keen eye could have detected faint, rounded scar-lines on his chest and the centre of his back, where the silver spike had pierced him years ago. Like Azora’s, his nails and teeth were black, but his lips were white. Devoid of hair, he did not have even eyelashes or eyebrows. Eyes of solid, unfathomable black, like polished orbs of coal, surveyed the chamber.

The webs parted before him as he approached the illusory wall that served as gateway to the rooms in the fortress. He moved into the corridor, pleased to find that the old ones were still perched above the false doors, exactly as he had left them. He stepped past the false wall, into the stone passage beyond.

High in the tower above him, Azora slumped back in her chair and looked up from the book before her. She was exhausted; days of reading had fatigued her even more than the rite of translocation to the desert had done. She had pored over the pages in a trance-like state, without feeling the exhaustion until this moment. Incredible powers were now hers, and dark secrets, too. Much of the book described excruciating methods of torture, to reap fear and anguish from hapless human victims.

She longed to put her new-found skills into practice. Soon she would send her spirit into the ethereal world to see how Lamici was faring.

Before she could attempt this, she would need to recharge her magical energies, presently at a very low ebb indeed.

From her cloak she withdrew a small bowl, made of thinly beaten metal, with strange symbols etched into its curved sides. Next, she drew out a palm-sized box, carved from the wood of a carnivorous Kalamtu tree.

Sliding its cover off, she took out a dried, pressed piece of a black lotus blossom. Placing the blossom into the bowl, she spoke a single word.

“Atmak.”

A thin blue flame burned from her fingernail, and she set the blossom afire.

It burned very slowly, filling the air with dark, acrid smoke. Placing the bowl on the floor in front of her, she took the smoke into her lungs. Within seconds, she was deep in the dreams of the black lotus.

Far below her, Skauraul stood at the base of the long stair. He had donned breeks, and a sleeveless black vest with side-laces woven of black human hair. The tight breeks and vest had been fashioned from the thick skin of a giant lizard. He wore no boots or sandals, nor any other gear save a black stone ring, which he had slipped over the smallest finger of his left hand.

Mechanically, he began climbing the long stair. He ascended quietly, with only the occasional sound of his thick, black toenails clicking against the stone steps. Everything was as he remembered it. In the centuries he had lain dormant in the sand, no pilferers or defilers had disturbed his great fortress. It had nested safely in its sandy tomb, awaiting his return.

Hundreds of years ago, even before his rise to power, Skauraul had foreseen the day of his defeat. The premonition of his own death had preyed upon him, driving him to madness. In his recurring dream, a white-haired old man skewered him upon a silver spike. He had used his power to seek and slay those who resembled the man in this vision.

Eventually all humans had looked to him like the man in his premonition. Thousands had died on spikes outside his palace; the sand had turned red from their blood. Still, the vision would not go away.

The gods themselves had seemed determined to vanquish him. They feared that his powers would eclipse theirs, and they lashed out at him in jealousy.

They would fail. He would survive, and his powers would grow.

While continuing his systematic murders, he had studied the esoteric Thurian Codex, eventually learning of a way to conquer death. He would need help; the spell that would bring him back from the dead could be cast only by another Mutare, steeped in the arts of necromancy.

Further, the caster must not know of Skauraul’s designs.

To achieve this goal, Skauraul struck a bargain with the venerable serpent-god, Set. To the evil Stygian god, ten thousand victims were sacrificed horribly on the spikes outside his fortress. In return, Set granted Skauraul’s request.

Centuries later, in the Purple Lotus swamps of southern Stygia, by the southernmost banks of the Bakhr River, Set had come to one of his priests in a dream, telling him that a special girl-child would be born in a nearby village. He had told the priest other secrets, dark whisperings of rituals that had turned the stomach of even the jaded Stygian priest.

Obediently, the priest had kidnapped the girl-child from the village and raised her in his swampy habitat. She was unlike human females, not just physically, but in her attitudes and interests. He had grown afraid of her, but greater had been his fear of Set. Fourteen years later, on the eve of the day of her birth—in the Year of the Spider and the Month of the Scorpion—he had performed the ritual that Set had commanded. Later, he had deliberately imbibed a lethal dosage of juice squeezed from the blossoms of the purple lotus.

Skauraul knew not what she had done or where she had gone in the years prior to her arrival at his fortress. Further, he cared not. Set had kept his part of the bargain, and the priestess had unknowingly invoked the spell that Skauraul had inscribed in his book hundreds of years ago.

If the casting of it had not destroyed her, Skauraul had further uses for her. He controlled her completely, though she knew it not. She would bear him many Mutare children. He commanded magic that would speed the growth of their spawn within her; a new child would be born every time the moon waxed full. When the babes had grown sufficiently, he would send them out to all lands, like harbingers of chaos and calamity to grovelling, mewling human wretches everywhere. He cared not that her powers would diminish while she was with child. Her weakened condition would keep her from attempting to destroy him.

Skauraul’s eyes glinted blackly with anticipation as he marched up the steps to claim his bride.

XIX

Marathon

The sun burned balefully in the cloudless azure sky above the eastern desert of Shem. Conan shaded his eyes with a sun-bronzed hand and carefully scanned the southern horizon. He blinked several times to be certain that what he saw was not a desert phantasm, nor an image conjured up by his sun-baked head. Nay, he saw it still, the grey speck weaving at the outer edge of his vision.

“I see him, just half a league away,” he rasped hoarsely to Kailash.

“He must have stopped to rest last night,” the Kezankian mumbled. He felt and sounded like he was speaking through a mouthful of sand.

“Today we catch him, by Crom!” Conan said wearily. “The seventh day of our chase, and the wretch still leads us!”

“Eighth day,” Kailash corrected. He had been counting the days since they had left Innasfaln. The first few days had been uneventful, but on the fifth day, a small band of Zuagir bandits had attacked them. The two warriors had made camp in the south-eastern foothills of the Kezankian Mountains, south of the Road of Kings. Conan had awakened in time to see several shadowy, knife-wielding forms approaching the camp under the cover of darkness. The Cimmerian had charged the Zuagirs and shouted to Kailash, rousing him.

In a pitched battle, they had slain a few of the nomads, but others escaped, taking Conan’s and Kailash’s horses with them. Conan’s provisions had still been packed onto his mount, but Kailash’s had fortunately been lying on the ground beside him. Though discouraged, they were unwilling to give up the chase, and had continued afoot to dog Lamici’s southward trail.

Their diligence had not been in vain. The next day they had found the carcass of a horse that Kailash recognized as one of the steeds from Eldran’s stable. The eunuch had pushed it too hard; he was now forced to continue on foot. With renewed hope, the two warriors had followed his sandal-tracks along the southernmost foothills of the Kezankian Mountains. The trail was colder. Lamici had gained much distance on them.

They had tracked him to the north-east edges of the Mountains of Fire.

Eventually even the far-off sight of those mountains had vanished from the horizon as they had forged deeper into the arid wastes of the Shemitish desert. Lamici’s foot-track had proven easier to follow than his horse-track. They had been certain of their nearness to him, but the eunuch had stayed maddeningly ahead of them.

Only now, days later, had Conan actually sighted him. Both men moved their aching legs along, redoubling their efforts to apprehend their quarry.

“The wretch has the endurance of a desert scorpion,” Conan grumbled, “and better luck than we have had.”

“His luck is about to change,” Kailash mumbled grimly, fingering the hilt of his sword suggestively.

“If he reaches the fortress before we catch him, our luck may worsen,”

Conan observed grimly.

Kailash lapsed into a surly silence, conserving his energy. Neither he nor Conan had yet brought up an issue of growing concern: their dwindling provisions. They had conserved their supply of water, but the gruelling pace they maintained was taking its toll. Further, they had not rested in the hottest hours of the day, as originally planned. To gain distance, they had opted to trudge on even while the sun was at its zenith.

Kailash believed that a few days without water would not trouble the Cimmerian. He wished that he had the same iron constitution as Conan, for he feared he would slow them up. His legs were cramping badly, his lungs ached from the searing air of the desert, and the exposed areas of his flesh were red and peeling. After they caught the eunuch, he was unsure if he could survive the journey back.

He allowed his mind to retreat from these unhappy thoughts, letting it linger instead on visions of cool tankards of ale and the soft caresses of beautiful tavern wenches. In a dreamlike state, he kept moving on, mindlessly following the Cimmerian.

As the merciless sun finally retreated from the sky, Conan once again surveyed the southern horizon. He smiled through cracked, chapped lips at what he saw. They were closing on Lamici, whose trail was weaving like the crooked gait of a tavern drunk. They had passed his empty, discarded water skin hours before; surely the crazed eunuch was on his last legs.

Conan turned at the sound of a soft thump behind him. Kailash had pitched forward into the sand. The Cimmerian moved toward him immediately, but Kailash stirred and got to his feet.

“Fell asleep,” Kailash muttered, brushing sand from his face. He promptly fell back down.

Conan threw him a worried glance. He propped the hillman’s head up and put the water skin to his blistered lips.

Kailash sipped at it, then raised himself on his elbows.

“Need to rest,” he told Conan through half-closed eyes. “You go on.”

Conan looked back toward the far-off figure of Lamici, which he could barely see in the fading light of dusk. He wished for even a few hours of sleep. He could not drag the big Kezankian along with him, nor could he simply abandon him here in the desert. They had only one skin of water between them. He made another attempt to prod Kailash into consciousness, but the groggy hillman lay motionless on the ground.

Disconcerted and out of ideas, the Cimmerian flung himself to the sand, a few paces away from Kailash. After pulling his hood over his face and resting a hand on the hilt of his drawn sword, he fell into an uneasy slumber.

Conan woke up feeling strangely refreshed. All about him were drab yellow dunes of fine sand, blown smooth by a wind that swept across them. The wind had sculpted sinuous patterns into the dunes, like waves in a sea of sand. His skin was dry and his lips were badly sunburned, but he did not feel the nagging tickle of thirst in his throat. Then an awful realization struck him. The morning sun was rising! He had overslept!

He raised up a hand to shield his eyes from the fiery gaze of the desert sun’s blazing eye. He lurched to his feet and moved over to awaken Kailash. With a jarring shock, he noticed that the hillman was nowhere in sight. There were no tracks in the sand to show where he might have gone. Desperately, Conan scanned the horizon for any sign of his friend. The sun burned especially bright today, so bright that he put one hand against his brow to shield his eyes.

In fact, the sun loomed closely over him, filling the sky with an unbearable radiance. He raised his arms protectively, peering out through slits in his squinting eyelids. As suddenly as the orb had swelled to fill the sky, it began to shrink and recede. He noticed that it had changed from yellow in colour to bluish-white.

Now it was no longer in the sky above him, but at the end of a silver chain. An elderly, white-haired man held the chain in one hand; in the other, he gripped a silver spike. His only garb was a tattered, dusty brown wrap; the well-worn sandals upon his feet flapped loosely. He shuffled across the sand toward the bewildered Cimmerian.

“Slay him as I did!” he crowed in a shrill voice, waving the spike around.

Conan quickly assumed a fighting stance, his weapon ready. Old as he was, this crazy geezer might be dangerous.

“When he looks upon it, he must face thee! Do not let him flee!” The man continued to rave, holding up the amulet. Conan recognized the trinket; it looked identical to the one Madesus had carried!

“Who are you?” the disoriented Cimmerian asked, still gripping his weapon firmly.

“Deranassib of Pelishtia,” the man answered. “Pierce his heart! Slay him as I did!”

“Who am I to slay, and how? I have no amulet, no silver spike. Where is Kailash, who was here with me?”

This time the old man did not respond. He pointed southward with his spike, turned his back toward Conan, and walked away, prattling on. As he walked, the flesh on his body faded until there was naught but bleached white bone. The skeleton receded, then sank into the sand, disappearing from Conan’s field of vision. The perplexed barbarian made no effort to follow. The sun was in his eyes again; it filled the sky and expanded toward him, crushing, burning, searing…

Conan woke up bellowing, grasping his sword-hilt and leaping nimbly to his feet. The sky was still dark; he had been dreaming. Cursing, he kicked at the sand and let his racing pulse slow down. A few paces away, Kailash stirred and yawned, then got up.

“Did you say something?” he asked in a sleep-muddled voice.

“Nay,” Conan replied, thinking it best not to share the strange, unsettling dream with his companion. “We must move on. I think that Lamici did not stop to rest.”

“You should have left me,” the hillman said, hanging his head in shame.

“My weakness may have cost us dearly. What time I have lost, I will make up for today. Onward!”

Wasting no more breath, Kailash set off at a rapid pace. The wind had not blown while they slept; the sand clearly showed Lamici’s footprints. Under the light of the moon, they followed without pausing.

Conan easily matched the hillman’s long strides, and by sunrise, they were close enough to see the eunuch from afar.

He was nearing the broken walls of an ancient structure. The walls rose unexpectedly out of the desert before them, and beyond them stood a forbidding tower. As Kailash saw the eunuch stagger toward the structure’s ruined gate, he uttered a stream of profanities that would have made an Argossean sailor flinch. “Run!” he called hoarsely to Conan. “We must catch him before he goes within!”

Drawing on reservoirs of inner strength, they dashed pell-mell toward the wall. Conan wondered whose doom was at hand: Lamici’s or theirs?

Putting aside his misgivings, he sprinted over the sand. He passed Kailash and rapidly closed the distance to the limping, faltering eunuch. He did not know that within the fortress, from the highest tower, soot-black eyes were coldly watching him.

Lamici looked over his shoulder and nearly screamed in terror when he saw the barbarian coming within a few hundred paces of him. The eunuch had no voice left with which to scream, and his blistered lips had swollen and split grotesquely. His gaunt, skull-like face was a peeling mask of cracked and sunburnt tissue, hanging in dozens of strips. The rest of his body was in similar dishevelment; his dust-soiled blue robes hung in shredded disarray about his stick-like body.

Most shocking of all were his eyes. For days he had stared into the sun, fascinated by its brightness. The orb had given them the colour and texture of congealed, milky-white potato soup. He was almost blind. In spite of his hampered vision, he knew which way to go, guided by some unseen pathfinder. He no longer remembered why he walked, or even what his own name was. His world consisted of very few objects: the sun, the fortress, and the amulet. They were all somehow important.

He stumbled through an opening in the outer wall, falling over but managing to stagger to his feet and continue. Behind him, the Cimmerian bolted madly toward the gate, less than a dozen paces away. He raised his sword before him, and its point was mere paces from the eunuch’s back. The unseen, dark-eyed watcher within the fortress observed every step. As Lamici passed through the wall, the watcher spoke his first word in many silent centuries.

“Kapatmak-kutuk!”

The syllables rolled echoingly from Skauraul’s throat, setting powerful forces in motion.

“Augh!” Conan bellowed in surprise as he slammed into the hardened iron of the gate, where there had been only empty air moments before. His blade went flying, and he rebounded backward into the sand. Reeling from the unexpected collision, he groped for his weapon and rose unsteadily.

“What witchery is this?” Kailash asked, skidding to a halt several feet in front of the gate. “Look!” With his sword, he pointed toward the walls on either side of the gate. They were no longer crumbling, cracked ribs of stone jutting up from the stand. Now they stood restored, unblemished and impervious.

“We must climb over,” grumbled Conan. “We can still catch him!”

Both he and the hillman were skilled climbers. They scaled the gate, which provided more footholds and grips than did the smooth walls.

Conan hoisted himself up to the top of the gate and looked over it.

Lamici was halfway to the steps that led to the fortress’s door. The Cimmerian swung over the gate and climbed part of the way down, then dropped to the ground below. Kailash followed him, rolling as he fell upon the soft sand. The eunuch was only a few hundred feet away. He had just reached the steps that led up to the fortress door.

“Delmek-keskin!”

Once again Skauraul spoke boomingly from the tower.

Conan drew his broad-bladed dagger as he darted toward the faltering eunuch. Behind him, Kailash let out a roar of surprise and pain. Conan glanced over his shoulder, nearly dropping the dagger in astonishment.

A long, wickedly barbed spike had suddenly thrust up from the sand. Its iron shaft was nearly as thick as the Cimmerian’s wrist. The spike had narrowly missed the hillman, grazing his left side and ripping away a piece of his worn cloak. Conan felt a slight tickle by his right foot and instinctively dived to one side. His lightning-fast reflexes saved him; another iron spike pierced the air where he had been only an instant before. It rose in the air, a head taller than Conan, before stopping.

The sandy patch of ground between the two men and the fortress had become a nightmarish death trap. Conan and Kailash frantically dodged the lethal spikes, which were sprouting from the ground around them like deadly iron weeds. Occasionally a spike would retract back into the ground; the sand would fill the hole that had been made, leaving little trace of the evil presence.

Conan and Kailash continued their frenzied dance around the spikes, inching closer to the fortress. Both men bled from numerous close calls, and their cloaks were ripped and torn in countless places. The Cimmerian, already winded from the foot-race, knew he would be skewered if he let his concentration slip for even a moment. Trusting to luck, he plunged ahead heedlessly, closing his eyes and running at full clip toward the door of the fortress.

When he opened his eyes again, he stood at the base of the steps, beyond the reach of the harrowing spikes. A nasty gash had opened along his right leg; the barbs from one spike had slashed his flesh brutally.

He was otherwise intact.

Imitating Conan’s crazed rush for the steps, Kailash hurled himself forward. He had nearly made it when a pole came up forcefully, ripping through his left foot and continuing upward. Howling in agony, Kailash fell to the ground.

Conan latched hold of the spike and wrenched at it with all his might.

The thick iron pole bent, then snapped off. Its barbs bit deeply into his palms, but he ignored the blood that flowed. Kailash pulled his foot free from the stem. In spite of his dehydration, a few tiny droplets beaded from his eyes, drawn out by the pain. Grimacing, he tore a loose strip from his cloak and bound his injured foot, knotting the cloth tightly and hobbling forward. Thick blood oozed slowly into the wrapping.

Gripping the spike like a makeshift spear, Conan drew his arm back.

“Die, dog of hell!”

He hurled the deadly shaft toward Lamici, who had been struggling weakly with the fortress’s heavy door. Even for one of Conan’s skill, the emaciated eunuch made a poor target. The point buried itself in the eunuch’s right shoulder, passing through with enough force to push the door open. The momentum of Conan’s throw propelled Lamici inside.

Conan retrieved his dropped dagger and bounded up the steps. Kailash limped stubbornly after him, wincing. They reached the door minutes later and dived inside.

A gruesome sight awaited them in the fortress’s cobwebby antechamber.

Several hairy, bloated spiders surrounded the eunuch’s prone form and were busily feasting upon it. Conan’s stomach heaved in revulsion at the hideous slurping and rending noises. Wielding his sword, he quickly dispatched the carnivorous arachnids.

Kailash fought off others that had dropped down from the chamber’s high ceiling, while Conan wrenched a small leather pouch from the dead eunuch’s scrawny waist. Inside, he found nothing but a small, heavy, cloth-bound object. He tore off the wrappings and triumphantly held up Madesus’s amulet.

Kailash looked down at his injured foot. “You must leave, Conan! Take the amulet and flee. Give it to a priest with the power to wield it against the priestess. You must go, now!” He thrust the bag of provisions at the Cimmerian.

Conan was spared the decision.

“Kapatmak-kapi!” Skauraul had spoken for a third time, sealing the human maggots in his tower. The iron door clanged shut. Conan made a vain effort to pull the spear from Lamici’s corpse and block the door, but he was too late.

Leaving the lofty observation room, Skauraul began the long climb down the winding stairs.

XX

Exitium

Conan and Kailash stared at the stone portal. Kailash tried his strength, but the door stubbornly refused to open. “There are three other doors,” the burly hillman observed after his eyes had adjusted to the chamber’s almost indiscernible light.

Conan eyed the doors with suspicion. Leering gargoyles crouched menacingly above them, and his instincts told him that traps lay just beyond.

“Four doors,” Conan said, moving to the large stone door that had slammed behind them. He made several efforts to force it open, but the stout portal would have withstood a dozen men with a metal-shod battering ram. Kailash and Conan combined their strength in a final, superhuman push. The thick stone refused to yield; it stood before them, silently mocking their strength. Panting from exertion, they gave up and slumped against the wall.

“Why did it close?” Kailash wondered aloud. “By Mitra, the traps in this accursed place are timed with inhuman precision! Do the very doors obey the witch’s commands?”

Conan responded with a vague grunt and mumbled a few curses. He was looking around the chamber for another way out and noticed that the light within had somehow improved. As he scanned the walls and ceiling, he was startled to find that the priest’s amulet was shining. It gave off an increasingly bright blue glow. He held it aloft, allowing it to illuminate the room.

“Look here! Tracks, in the dust!” Conan called to Kailash, pointing at boot-marks in the thin layer of dust on the floor before one of the doors.

Kailash stared questioningly at the amulet, but Conan only shrugged in response. Then the hillman studied the tracks and carefully eyed the door. “Locked or bolted, I’ll warrant.” He tried the handle, letting out a murmur of surprise when the portal pushed open with ease.

Conan put a restraining hand on Kailash’s shoulder. “Wait,” he said curtly. “I’ll go first, to light the way.” With his sword, he pointed to the blood-soaked wrap around the hillman’s injured foot. “Step carefully! More traps may lie ahead.”

Kailash nodded, shifting his grip on his hilt. With the toe of one sandal, Conan shoved the door all the way open. The amulet shone into the large, semicircular room beyond. It was empty but for a half-dozen or so statues. In the centre of the room, a wrought-iron spiral stair wound upward, disappearing into the high ceiling some twenty or thirty feet above. Conan stepped guardedly, motioning for Kailash to follow.

The Kezankian paused to wrap a new strip of cloth around his foot, then limped in after Conan.

Seven statues stood opposite the door, spaced evenly apart, taking up the entire wall. They resembled the repugnant gargoyles that perched above the doors in the outer chamber, but they were larger and did not grip orbs, as their smaller counterparts did. Conan had no wish to walk within their reach. He strode catlike toward the twisting stair of iron in the room’s centre.

Kailash picked up the barbed spike still gleaming wetly with Lamici’s blood. To prevent the door from closing behind them, he wedged the spike against the jamb and set its point securely into the door.

When Conan placed his foot on the bottom step of the iron stair, he heard a loud crack from the antechamber. Whirling, he jumped off the step toward the door, landing beside Kailash, who reacted more slowly.

The crack was followed by a stony thump, and a cloud of grey dust billowed in from the doorway. Conan shoved the amulet forward, hoping to see what was happening in the outer chamber.

When the dust settled, both men cursed and backed into the room.

Standing in the doorway was the hideous, crouching form of a gargoyle.

Its skin had changed from pitted grey stone to dark, reptilian green, and its eyes flickered redly in the shadowy chamber. Before either man could react, the leering beast tossed its orb at them.

Conan’s blade lashed out and rang against the milky-white sphere with a burst of blue sparks. Deflected, the orb fell to the floor a few feet away from the Cimmerian, sputtering faintly. Wisps of noxious white smoke rose from it, fouling the air. Conan advanced and raised his sword to strike the gargoyle.

The scaly beast moved rapidly. It grabbed the spike that Kailash had jammed into the doorway and shoved the point menacingly at Conan. The Cimmerian sidestepped the deadly weapon, twisting and bending his head.

With a blood-curdling cry, he swung his sword at the beast’s exposed side. The blade bit deeply into the creature’s vitals, shearing off a leathery chunk of flesh that fell to the floor with a meaty thump.

The gargoyle jumped back, grasping the door handle and pulling the door firmly shut, blocking Conan’s next attack. The wounded beast slid the spike through the handle, barring the portal, as greyish-yellow ichor gushed from the gaping wound in its side. Moments later, the beast froze and turned to stone, its hands still locked onto the spike.

Inside the chamber, Conan threw himself against the thick door, but could only rattle it. Kailash yelled a warning to Conan, who turned from the door to face the hillman. The ashen-faced Kezankian stood a few feet away, staring in horror at the statues along the wall. All seven had begun to advance slowly toward them. Like the gargoyles above the doors, their flesh had taken on a scaly, green appearance, and to Conan they looked even more formidable than their smaller, orb-bearing cousins.

Further, his eyes were watering from the acrid smoke of the cracked orb. The fumes tore at his lungs like daggers; every breath he drew brought fresh twinges of pain from within his chest.

The statue in the centre flapped its leathery wings and soared into the air, while the two nearest to Conan began closing in. Cut off from Conan, Kailash hobbled over to the iron stair, gritting his teeth as four of the sharp-taloned beasts moved closer, surrounding him.

Conan set his back to the door and prepared to meet the flying gargoyle’s attack. It dived right at the Cimmerian, talons and fangs bristling and leathery wings flapping. The barbarian held his position until the fearsome talons were inches from his face. With a yell, he dodged to one side and rolled to his feet, swinging his blade with enough vigour to fell a tree. The gargoyle slammed into the door with stunning force; a loud crack of snapping bones filled the room.

The edge of Conan’s blade tore through the beast’s wings, ripping them from its back. They lay on the floor, still beating weakly. The gargoyle left a nasty smear on the door as it slid down, twitching spasmodically. Seconds later, its crumpled carcass had turned back to stone. Undaunted, the other two gargoyles closed the distance to Conan, stepping near enough to strike.

In the centre of the chamber, Kailash fought desperately. His punctured foot ruined his balance and kept him on the defensive. A few gargoyles sported minor wounds from the hillman’s efforts, but the Kezankian himself bled from bloody scratches. One gargoyle had gotten close enough to rip a furrow along Kailash’s jaw. Step by step, they forced the sweating hillman to retreat up the iron stair. He had already climbed a dozen feet above the floor, but from this position, he could no longer see Conan.

Slowly, he backed up the stair, struggling to keep his balance. At least now only one beast at a time could attack him. As he neared the top of the stair, he was eye-level with the chamber there. A small but sturdy-looking wooden door was the only exit. Before Kailash could put his back to this door, two gargoyles raced into the chamber and blocked the exit. A few more crept up the stairs, barring his return to the room below. The hillman turned to face the beasts closest to him, hoping to cut them down and reach the door. Their sharp talons slashed at him, tearing deep, crimson furrows into his sword-arm. Blood welled from dozens of cuts.

Keeping his composure, the hillman surprised his unearthly foes by rushing straight for them, then falling to the floor. Rolling smoothly between two of the gargoyles, Kailash lunged for the door. His injured foot shot arrows of pain up his leg, but he gritted his teeth and wrenched at the door handle, praying silently to Mitra that the door would open. Mitra was listening. The unlocked door opened easily, and he fell into the room beyond, narrowly evading the grasping talons of the gargoyles pursuing him.

Darkness shrouded the chamber he had entered. The bright light from the amulet had faded gradually as Kailash had moved upstairs away from the Cimmerian.

Groping for the door handle, he slammed the portal shut. Seconds later, it rattled in its frame as a gargoyle rammed into it. Fumbling along the door frame, Kailash found the bolt and shot it home with a reassuring iron clank. The door looked solid enough to keep the beasts at bay for at least a while. He slumped against the door to brace it, catching his breath and automatically assessing his position. His eyes, now adjusted to the darkness, still could not discern any of the room’s secrets.

As he tightened the shreds of cloth around his wounded foot, he heard a strange sound from somewhere in the chamber. He froze, listening intently, but the din made by the gargoyles battering the door drowned out nearly everything else. His hillman instincts took over; he readied his sword and felt along the wall, hoping to find a defensible corner in the room. During a pause in the noise from outside, he heard the sound again. It was a soft rustling, like leather rubbed against smooth stone. The sound had grown louder. His left hand found the end of the wall, and he stood up straight in a fighting stance. How much longer would the door hold? He suspected that the gargoyles could see in the dark. If they broke in, his doom was at hand.

An eerie sensation from his foot wiped all thoughts of the door from his mind. Some… thing was probing lightly at his injured foot. His skin crawled as he felt the thing touch him. Moments later, he felt new pain as something small and sharp thrust into the open wound. A revolting sucking noise ensued.

Kailash jerked his foot away in disgust, kicking to dislodge the thing that clung to it. The creature hissed wetly in anger as he shook it off. He heard it fall softly to the floor, sputtering. Its body had been soft, bulbous, and leathery. From what pit had this horror crawled? He swung blindly in the direction of the hissing. His sword rang against the stone floor with a shower of tiny sparks. He had missed, and the sparks had died too quickly for him to get a glimpse of the creature.

As he aimed another swing, a dim, orange glow filled the room. His nose twitched at a strange, smoky odour. He could now see that the room was small. In an open doorway on the opposite wall, a narrow stair led up into the tower. There was no furniture or features save the door he had bolted a few minutes earlier. He was not alone in the chamber. A few feet away, a large spider was dragging itself across the floor toward him. Its pale eyes glowered at him with rage, suggesting that it had far more intelligence than any of its smaller kin. By luck, he had wounded it. A few of its severed legs lay on the floor near it. Mitra had surely guided his desperate sword-stroke. Fresh red blood, leached from his foot, smeared the spider’s loathsome fangs. He fought a sudden urge to retch and looked up, away from the spider.

Kailash sucked in a breath of air, gasping in surprise. He saw the source of the glow, and of the smoke. A woman was coming down the narrow stairs. In one hand she carried a dark stone bowl. Wisps of smoke rose from the bowl, which gave off a dull, orange-red glow. The fumes concealed her face and other features from him, but he was certain that he was confronted by the Mutare priestess. She carried no weapons that he could see, but Madesus had told him that against her, a sword was useless.

She reached the bottom stair and stepped into the room, setting the stone bowl on the floor. The smoke parted around her, and he could see that she wore no garments. The light cast a hellish red glow on her smooth skin and tinted her shoulder-length, shiny black hair. Wantonly, she ran her fingers through her tresses, stroked her neck, then her perfect body. She moved her hands over the generous globes of her exposed breasts, and past them to her belly. Her stomach was not flat, as he would have expected. It bowed outward, as though she were with child. The skin above her navel pulsed obscenely, like a beating heart.

He tore his gaze from her, repulsed.

She laughed, a sound that chilled his bones and froze the hot blood in his veins. “Welcome, hillman!” She paused, seeing that his eyes were downcast. “You cannot bear to look upon true beauty? Am I too much for your eyes?”

Against his will, Kailash felt his gaze being drawn to her. Invisible fingers gripped his head, turning it toward her. He clenched his lids shut, sensing that he could not—must not—look into her eyes.

She laughed again, more cruelly than before. “It matters not. I am with child. My scion grows quickly within me. Before the waning of this moon, the first of a new race of Mutare will be born. Your miserable body and its warm red blood will satisfy the hunger of my child. With a simple gesture, I could stop your heart. Instead, I shall relish your cries of agony as I feast upon your living flesh. For a human, you are strong. You will live for some time, until I rip the beating heart from your body and drink its juices. Look upon me, upon the beautiful face of death!”

With a choking gasp, Kailash’s eyes opened wide and stared at Azora.

Her eyes were wide, red-black pools that drew him in. He was powerless to pry his gaze from them. His slashed, bleeding jaw hung slackly open.

His limbs were leaden, immovable. He fell dumbly to the floor, still conscious and still struggling. He gripped his sword so tightly that it stayed clenched in his paralysed. fist. His eyes, wide with terror, were still riveted to Azora’s face.

The priestess’s crimson lips drew back over rows of dagger-like black teeth. With inhuman strength, she shredded his mail vest as if it were gauze. Her malevolent eyes bored into his eyes as she tore a strip of flesh from his exposed chest and brought it to her mouth. Kailash could not even move his lips and throat to scream.

As Azora reached for his chest again, Kailash heard a loud, angry hiss from behind her. The priestess whirled, momentarily breaking her eye contact with the hillman. The wounded spider had locked its fangs around her ankle.

“Man-blood you told Xim,” it wheezed angrily through its fangs. “Now you take from Xim! Blood is for Xim!”

Shrieking in fury, the priestess directed her gaze at the hideous spider and made a short, violent motion with her right hand. The spider flattened instantly, as if struck by an immense mallet. Azora kicked the pulpy remains away with her foot.

Kailash, released from her gaze, realized that he had regained control of his limbs. Shocked, but reacting with instincts that had pulled him through countless deadly border wars, the hillman adjusted his grip on the heavy-bladed sword and rammed it into the nearest target—Azora’s distended, pulsing belly. His strength and fury drove the wide blade through, until its sharpened steel point protruded from her spine. A violent shudder shook her body.

Kailash’s heart raced. Had he slain her? How could it be possible? His brief, wild hope was dashed as she moved slowly, drawing the three-foot length of steel from the ghastly ruins of her abdomen. Kailash jerked the blade through her fingers, dismayed to see that she did not bleed.

A foul-smelling ichor dripped from her belly, but she took no notice of it. Backing into the corner, Kailash raised his sword and waited.

Azora felt her belly, then screamed with rage. “The child is destroyed!” She turned her face toward him, her eyes burning hot and red like the very fires of hell. “Scum! Your pitiful blade is less to me than the sting of a mosquito. You will suffer as no human wretch has! With every drop of blood I draw from you, I will wring more agony than any human has endured!”

Kailash again felt his body freeze. She gestured, and the blade jumped from his grasp, rising into the air. With a flick of her wrist, the darkly stained length of steel plunged downward through the hillman’s side. An unseen hand of incredible strength pushed it through him, burying the sword deep into the stone floor under him. Kailash’s brain pounded with agony; his muscles, denied by their paralysis, could not even recoil from the blow. Sweat poured from his body as blood spurted from the wound.

“No vital organs were pierced,” the priestess told him mockingly. “Your death will take days, like the death of a rabbit in a hunter’s trap.”

Maliciously, she gestured at the sword-hilt, rocking it back and forth and fraying the wound. Reaching down, she placed her hand on the ugly gash. Her palm burst out in flames, and she seared the wound shut around the blade. The sickening odour of charred flesh and blood filled the room. Kailash felt his mind disconnecting from his body, retreating from the scene in the room that had become a grisly torture chamber.

When the door burst open, finally succumbing to the pounding of the gargoyles outside, he was scarcely aware of it. In his dreamlike state, he could see but neither smell, taste, hear, nor feel. Three gargoyles rushed in past the smashed door, moved to the corner, and surrounded Azora and the prone hillman. To Kailash’s surprise, they attacked the priestess.

Kailash would not have been thus surprised had he but known of the gargoyles’ true origin and purpose. They were ancient creatures, born of an age pre-dating the Mutare. The serpent-people of Valusia had bred the gargoyles to serve as guardians. From a sorcerer in Stygia, Skauraul had wrung secrets of mastery and used them to control the beasts. Azora knew nothing of these secrets, nor was she aware that her spells had no power over the gargoyles. Their simple minds lacked the human and animal emotions that much of Azora’s sorcery depended on.

Eyes blazing, Azora faced the onrushing gargoyles, gesturing wildly with her hands. She cursed when the beasts continued to press her. They knew only that she was an intruder. Hundreds of years before, Skauraul had ordered them to destroy all intruders. Before Azora could react, they carried out this order relentlessly. In a frenzy of thrashing claws and gnashing fangs, they seized the priestess and tore her to pieces. She had no blood, but the substance of her body was pulled apart by their vicious onslaught. Regaining control of his body, Kailash turned away from the carnage.

He knew that his situation was hopeless. Azora had pinned him like an insect to the stone floor. Yet when he looked for his blade, he saw that it was lying beside him. Had it been an illusion? The chest wounds were real enough. Blood still trickled from the ugly gashes she had torn in his flesh, but his side was unmarked. The gargoyles would be after him next. Lurching painfully to his feet, the hillman brandished his sword and prepared for their attack.

His strength had ebbed, and he was dizzy from the loss of blood. He no longer felt the pain in his foot. His leg had gone numb from the knee down. In spite of these injuries, his Kezankian stubbornness kept him from laying down to die. Before this chamber became his tomb, he vowed to send a few of these scaly beasts back to hell. Grimly, he prayed silently to Mitra and braced himself for his final battle.

In the chamber below, Conan also faced several of the beasts. He jumped onto the pile of gargoyle stone at the base of the door, aiming a slash at the beast on his right. With unexpected agility, the gargoyle dodged the blow and launched itself at the Cimmerian. Momentarily off balance, the barbarian could not raise his blade to meet the onrushing beast. As he braced himself for the impact, the gargoyle on his left reached for the amulet with its dagger-like talons. Unexpectedly, the beast froze in mid-swipe as its talons brushed against the amulet’s glowing surface.

The scaly horror turned instantly to stone, as Conan was slammed against the door by a rib-bruising impact with the other gargoyle.

The battered door burst open, too weak to withstand the combined weight of the two assailants. They spilled into the room beyond, in a confusing jumble of human and reptilian limbs. The amulet skittered away as Conan hit the floor. The gargoyle’s massive torso pinned down his sword-arm, but he had somehow managed to keep his sword in hand.

Grunting and writhing, Conan grappled with the beast. The immense creature outmatched even the powerfully muscled Cimmerian; its arms were twice the thickness of his. Using all of his skill and speed, Conan knew that he could do no more than temporarily keep the beast from strangling him. His sword was useless in such close quarters; he let go of its hilt. The broad-bladed dagger at his belt was unreachable. In desperation, he cast his gaze about the room, searching for a weapon with which to give himself an advantage.

His red-misted eyes settled on the tip of the barbed spike that had snapped as the door burst open. It was wedged point-up between the door jamb and a large piece of rubble. Wrenching his pinned arm from underneath the beast, Conan fought for a solid hold on the gargoyle’s rough, scaly hide. One of the creature’s hands gripped his throat, and its talons were digging in, tearing the skin and slicing into the thick cords of muscle on Conan’s bull neck. The beast’s other hand was wrapped around Conan’s left forearm.

The thews in Conan’s right arm bulged as he tightened his grip on the gargoyle. Heaving, he shifted his weight and flipped the beast over onto the tip of the out-thrust spike. The sharp, barbed shaft sank into the beast’s short neck. The skewered gargoyle convulsed once, then again, before turning to stone.

Shaking from his exertions and breathing erratically, Conan rose to his feet. His neck was a ruin of ripped muscle and torn flesh. A red fog clouded his vision, and he felt light-headed from lack of breath. His only thought was to recover his sword and the amulet, and to help Kailash… if the hillman still lived. The other room had become strangely silent.

He took one look at his bent sword before casting it aside, drawing the broad-bladed dagger from its sheath in his belt. The short hairs on the back of his neck suddenly rose, and in spite of the desert heat, he felt a wave of icy cold pass over him.

Before him stood a black-garbed man, barefoot and weaponless. A small fire enveloped his right hand, illuminating his ageless face and dark, flinty eyes. Conan fought down an instinctive fear of sorcery and tightened his hand around the hilt of his dagger. He clearly faced a demon, or a sorcerer of some kind. In spite of the heat in the room, a deep chill crawled down his spine.

“I would welcome you were I a gracious host,” the man said, smiling almost imperceptibly. “I am not. As for my wife, whom you have travelled so far to meet, she is… indisposed.”

Conan gauged the distance to the sorcerer and readied his dagger for a throw. He trusted his aim, and he prayed that a blade through the heart would finish this black-eyed devil. Even as he tensed his arm and drew it back, the devil’s sorcery lifted him from the stone floor.

“Yuzmek,” Skauraul whispered, gesturing upward. “Akmak.”

The iron outer doors swung open with a crash, and Conan was propelled out of the room, through the air. The Cimmerian reached for the door frame as he flew past it, but the motion simply set him spinning.

Skauraul rose him up high into the air, past the tower steps, and over the bed of spikes that rose threateningly from the sand.

“Azalmak-delmek.”

As the Mutare spoke, Conan plummeted toward an upthrust iron spike.

He could see the gleaming tip rushing toward him. The sharpened shaft ran through his leg, grated past the bone, but missed his vitals.

Grunting from the excruciating pain, Conan gripped the shaft to keep it from tearing out. His iron will and vitality kept him from passing out.

He turned his face to the sorcerer, who stood in the doorway, gloating.

“Insect!” the mage raved. “A hundred warriors like you could do nothing to stop me. Suffer the fate of fools who lack the wit to fear me! You may live until nightfall, if the vultures overlook you.” Skauraul turned, his cold laugh ringing out at Conan from the tower chamber.

Thousands of years before, when Skauraul’s reign of terror was at its apex, Cimmerians were a race unknown in the civilized world. So it was that the Mutare had never encountered a barbarian, else he would never have left so dangerous a foe alive.

With a howl of animal rage, Conan channelled all his might into the arm that still gripped the dagger. His aim was true, and Skauraul did not see the silvered steel as it hissed through the air like an arrow from a longbow. The broad, foot-long blade struck the Mutare from the side, shearing through his ribs. The dagger had no crossguard, so the raw force of Conan’s throw buried it to the pommel.

Conan’s attack would have been a last, futile gasp, as no normal blade could harm a Mutare. But fate had guided the Cimmerian’s hand in King Eldran’s palace armoury. The ancient, broad blade that Conan had chosen had been forged from a unique silver spike. The spike had been a holy relic from Pelishtia, forged into a dagger by King Nathouk and given as a gift to King Maelcinis of Brythunia. Nathouk had taken the spike from the tomb of Deranassib, the holy man who had slain Skauraul. The white-haired Deranassib had appeared in Conan’s strange dream.

Skauraul clutched at his side and doubled over, drawing his breath in sharply. He spun around and howled. His unearthly scream rang out across the desert, and before the echoes had faded, the Mutare had crumbled to grains of sand. The blade lay smouldering in the doorway, its metal edges orange-red as if just taken from a smithy’s forge. A chance wind swept across the steps to the doorway, scattering the small pile of sand.

Clenching his teeth so hard that his jaw muscles ached, Conan threw his weight forward, snapping the barbed shaft that had speared his leg. He drew it completely through the wound, each inch bringing fresh waves of pain. Finally the barb was out. He threw it down in disgust, making a tourniquet of his sword-belt to stem the crimson flood from the wound.

Limping, he went up the steps into the tower.

From Lamici’s cloak, he tore a few strips and bandaged the ghastly hole in his thigh. The dagger looked far too hot to handle; its blade was glowing more brightly than before, the red glare turned a yellow-orange. As he went to look for Kailash, it began hissing and smoking. The heat filled the room, baking Conan like a loaf in an oven.

His deeply bronzed skin turned red, and he reluctantly abandoned his search for Kailash; injured, the hillman could not have withstood the four gargoyles. The last sound he had heard from Kailash had been the horrible scream of a dying man. At least he had avenged his friend’s death, and fulfilled his promise to the hillman.

Conan hurried out of the smoking tower, retrieving the last water-skin as he left. When his foot struck a small, metallic object, he unthinkingly scooped it up as he rushed out. Later, he would wonder how he came to hold the amulet.

The dagger on the floor was now glowing white-hot, and the room had begun to shake. When Conan reached the edge of the spike-bed outside the tower, the stone walls rumbled ominously.

A sudden explosion rocked the tower, and the stone slabs cracked and collapsed with an ear-splitting roar, as if a god had smote the structure with a mighty hammer. Skauraul’s fortress began crumbling into dust, as its maker had done only minutes before.

Conan continued his trek toward the outer walls with as much speed as he could muster. When he reached the ruined gates, only a broken stone ring and a pile of crumbling stone remained where the tower had once risen proudly.

The Cimmerian sighed. So much for the treasure he had hoped to find. He felt fortunate to have escaped with his life. Bowing his head to shield his face from the sun, he began the gruelling journey to the north.

XXI

A Parting of Ways

Conan remembered little of his arduous trek through the desert. He had numbly traversed the sandy wasteland until it was far behind him. His water-skin had been empty for over a day. Barbaric endurance had kept his legs moving, one stride at a time, until he reached the southern tip of the Path of the Serpent.

Near the path, he had found water and a haven for sleep, refreshing his mind. His body still ached from the punishment he had endured at the fortress—he limped badly, and the leg wound was healing poorly. He shrugged this off; he had suffered worse in the past. Conan knew that he would reach Brythunia in spite of these wounds.

When he returned to Pirogia, he would tell Eldran his tale. He was certain that the king would give him a horse, supplies, and maybe even gold. He would bid Yvanna farewell; he smiled, for the first time in days, at this thought. Then he would leave for Zamora.

His mind occupied with these pleasant thoughts, the Cimmerian reached Innasfaln unmolested in several days of easy travel. He decided to stay at Malgoresh’s inn for the night, in spite of the unpleasant memories the place held for him. A few tankards of ale would raise his spirits, by Crom! The innkeeper might even find him a horse.

He pushed open the taproom’s new, pitch-smeared wooden door and strode in. It was late in the afternoon, but the sun had already begun to set.

A few locals looked up from their ale cups, then just as quickly looked away. At the back of the room, Conan saw the innkeeper’s familiar face.

Malgoresh was leaning forward, intently conversing with two patrons who sat with their backs to the Cimmerian.

“Ale, by Crom!” he said as he reached the table.

Malgoresh looked up, and his jaw dropped in surprise. “By Hanuman’s furry member ‘tis Conan!” He smiled broadly.

One of the men at the table made a choking sound, spat out a mouthful of ale, and slammed down his tankard with a crash. He spun around to face the Cimmerian. Conan, in turn, felt a wave of shock engulf him.

“Kailash! By Crom and all the spirits of my fathers, I thought you were dead!”

He extended a scarred hand to the Kezankian, who grasped it. The hillman stood up slowly and pounded Conan on the shoulder with his free hand. The Cimmerian saw that Kailash’s left leg was gone from the knee down. In its place was a freshly fashioned leg of wood.

“A thousand times I prayed to Mitra, hoping you might have escaped,”

the hillman said elatedly. “What befell you in the fortress?”

‘Tell me your tale first. The last sound I heard from you was the scream of a man on the torturer’s rack!” Conan sat down heavily on the bench.

Grinning, Malgoresh slammed fresh mugs of ale down on the table before them, as Kailash related the grisly events of his encounter with Azora and Xim.

“The beasts tore her into a thousand pieces and scattered the bits about. Gods, what a sight! They came for me next. I could barely raise my sword to defend myself. One beast I slew by luck and a well-placed sword-thrust. The next tore my leg off like the wing of a fly!” He thumped the wooden stump with a finger. “While he devoured it, I stuck my blade down his maw. He turned to stone like the other, but my sword was stuck. Then the third gargoyle suddenly turned—as if being summoned—and went out, back down the stairs.

“I dragged myself to the burning bowl that the accursed priestess had brought into the room and sealed my leg wound with its hot coals. Then I blacked out from the pain. When I woke up, the fortress was shaking and trembling. Stone cracked around me, and a hole gaped in the outer wall of the room. I pulled myself to it, narrowly avoiding the slabs of rock that fell from the ceiling. I threw myself through the gap and rolled down the side of the fortress. Its sides leaned crazily, and I slid for dozens of feet before I hit the sand. By Mitra, I know not how my bones held together!”

“Kezankians are made of strong stuff,” a grinning Malgoresh commented, nodding sagely.

“Aye, but not as strong as the stuff of Cimmerians! I would have died in the desert had Kaletos not intervened.”

Kailash pointed to the man who sat next to him. Conan had forgotten about him in the excitement of seeing the hillman. Kaletos? The name was familiar… Madesus’s mentor! Conan stared at him curiously. Kaletos looked like a much older version of Madesus. He had only a few strands of white hair left, but his bright green eyes were strangely youthful.

Conan’s gaze was drawn to the amulet around Kaletos’s neck, reminding him of the amulet he had recovered from the fortress. Conan removed the talisman from its wrappings and handed it to the ancient priest, who accepted it with a look of sorrow.

“How did you find Kailash? Did you follow us through the desert?” Conan asked, mystified.

“Nay,” the pale-lipped Kaletos answered in his strange Corinthian accent. “My young friend Madesus bid me to help thee. When he fell to the assassin’s blade, I sensed his demise.” He raised the amulet that Conan had handed to him. “It was this I followed,” he said.

“Did you have horses? Swiftly you travelled, to reach the inn before me!”

“Thy friend will tell thee the tale,” the priest said with a wry smile.

As Conan watched, Kaletos’s white robes began to shimmer. They gave off an unbearably bright light. Conan blocked the light with his hands and squinted through his fingers, hoping for a glimpse of the priest.

What the Cimmerian saw next, he kept to himself for the rest of his life. Through the dazzling white light, Kaletos’s ancient face was changing. The lines of age vanished, though the piercing, wide-set eyes looked the same. A long, patriarchal beard had appeared on his face, and his hair was long and flowing. It was the visage of Mitra, Lord of Light. Before Conan shut his eyes and bowed his head in the overpowering presence, he saw something else.

Beside the white-robed entity, another had appeared. It grasped the amulet and stood smiling for a moment, looking straight at Conan. Then Madesus was whispering to him. “We thank you, Conan. Grieve not for me, for I am now at peace, my worldly tasks done.”

Following that, the two vanished in the blink of an eye.

The remaining men stood gaping at each other, speechless. After a few moments of stunned silence, they began talking. No one else in the taproom had seen the white glow, or anything else that the three men had witnessed.

Kailash shook his head. “I remember Kaletos finding me in the desert, feverish and near dead. We had horses, or so I thought, and he took me to a temple, where priests tended to my leg. When I was ready to ride, we made for the inn here.”

“Aye, you arrived only this morning!” added Malgoresh.

“On horses?” Conan asked.

“Yes…” Kailash paused, as if his memory were troubling him.” We tied them outside.”

“When I entered, I saw no horses outside,” Conan said solemnly.

The Kezankian’s face paled. He brooded for a while before speaking again. “A wise man meddles not in the affairs of priests and wizards.”

Then he reached for his tankard of ale, smiling.

Lifting his own tankard, Conan nodded in agreement.

Table of Contents

Prologue

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI