Read Conan The Destroyer Online
Authors: Robert Jordan
Conan The Destroyer (6 page)
T
he sanguinary sun sat on the mountain tops, a burning ball that baked the four riders even as daylight dwindled. Bombatta had cursed steadily since they turned south, but he did it under his breath, and Conan did not try to hear what was said. Had he heard, he might have had to take action, and he had decided that Jehnna should not have to see the other man slain, pleasant though the idea might seem were she not there.
he sanguinary sun sat on the mountain tops, a burning ball that baked the four riders even as daylight dwindled. Bombatta had cursed steadily since they turned south, but he did it under his breath, and Conan did not try to hear what was said. Had he heard, he might have had to take action, and he had decided that Jehnna should not have to see the other man slain, pleasant though the idea might seem were she not there.
“Over this next hill, Conan,” Malak said suddenly. “Selket stab me if Akiro’s camp does not lie there. If I was not lied to in Shadizar.”
“Three times have you said that,” Jehnna said irritably.
The wiry man shrugged and grinned. “Even I make mistakes now and again, my lady. But this time, I assure you, I am right.”
Stones turned beneath the hooves of Conan’s mount as it made its way up the slope. The Cimmerian was beginning to wonder if Malak even had an idea in which country Akiro was to be found. Then he topped the hill, and growled, “Hannuman’s Stones!”
“Watch your tongue before Jehnna!” Bombatta snarled, but as he reached Conan’s side he muttered, “Black Erlik’s Bowels and Bladder!”
Below them was indeed Akiro’s camp, a crude hut of clay and stone built into the side of a hill. The plump, yellow-skinned wizard, however, was bound hand and foot to a thick, upright post set in the ground before the hut, and about his feet piled branches were just leaping into flame. Three men, their backs to those on the hill, stood in front of the growing fire with heads thrown back to chant at the sky and arms outstretched so that their long, white robes hung beneath them like wings. More than a score of others, their filthy, tattered rags contrasting sharply with the triad’s pristine garments, watched, howling and shaking their spears in approbation.
“I never liked Akiro all that much,” Malak said weakly.
“We need him,” Conan replied. He looked at Bombatta, not asking the question, but the Zamoran saw it in his eyes.
“No, barbar. If this is the man you’ve brought us all this way to find, then he is your affair.”
“Why are you all talking,” Jehnna demanded angrily, “instead of helping that poor man down there? Bombatta?”
“My duty is to guard you, child. Would you have me take you among those savages below, or leave you here alone when there might be others about?”
“There is still time to ride for Arenjun,” Malak suggested.
“Go straight for Akiro, Malak.” Conan’s broadsword came easily into his hand, the setting sun lighting its length with premonitory crimson. “He cannot stand those flames much longer.” With that he kicked his horse into a gallop down the hill.
“Donar help me,” Malak hissed at the Cimmerian’s back, “think you of the kind of men who can tie up a wizard!” Muttering quick prayers to half a score of gods, the small thief loosed the horse he had brought for Akiro and followed.
Silently Conan charged, the clash of shod hooves on stone drowned beneath the yells and chants of the spearmen before him. His horse burst into a knot of them, throwing suddenly screaming men to either side like a ship breasting a wave. Others scrambled toward him, spears dropping to the ready, but he ignored them for the moment. The whiteclad trio had not ceased their chanting, nor looked away from Akiro. Wizardry of some kind it surely was, and the Cimmerian was just as sure it must be halted if Akiro was to be saved.
The center of the three went down beneath the hooves of Conan’s horse with a startled scream and the crunch of bone. The big youth had no compunction about riding him down from behind. This was no sport, but rather war in miniature. These men meant to kill a friend of his, and he would stop them how he could.
The long-robed man to his right snarled at him, produced a dagger from his voluminous sleeve. The Cimmerian could not help staring in horror even as his sword went up. That snarling mouth held teeth filed to points, and below it hung a necklace of shriveled human hands. Small hands. Children’s hands.
Conan made his first sound then since leaving the hilltop, a roar of rage as his steel slashed into that foul, sharp-toothed gap. With a gurgling scream the man jerked himself off the blade. Clawed hands rose to clutch at a ruined face; blood poured between quivering fingers, and spreading scarlet stained the pale robe.
Then Conan had no more time to think of the wizard, if such he was, or of the last of the three, who seemed to have disappeared. Shock had frozen the trio’s followers at first. Now they came at a rush.
The first spear to thrust at him Conan grabbed just behind the head, ripping it from the grasp of a man whose throat was torn out by the Cimmerian’s broadsword an instant later. With the haft of that spear he beat aside another thrust while his blade was slicing yet another shaft in two. Desperately he shifted his hold on the spear and sank its long point into the face of one of his attackers. His steel clove a skull to the eyes.
Three were dead in as many heartbeats, and the rest fell back. They were enough to sweep over him by sheer weight of numbers, but some would surely die. They had proof of that, now, and none wanted to be in the forefront. They shuffled nervously, edging forward, darks eyes burning with a mixture of fear and shame at that fear.
Carefully, not taking his eyes from the slowly approaching spearmen, Conan stepped down from his horse. They would have the advantage, with their long spears, should he remain mounted. Not, he told himself wryly, that there was not some advantage for them merely in outnumbering him twenty to one. Best to take the initiative. He eyed their straggly line, chose the weakest point, and set himself to attack.
Suddenly a ball of fire shot past his shoulder to strike a ragged spearman in the face and explode in lumps of charred flesh.
Conan jumped in spite of himself, and looked over his shoulder. Beside the fire Malak capered wildly, grinning like a fool. In front of the wiry little thief stood Akiro, his rough brown tunic and cross-gaitered leggings still smouldering in patches. The old wizard’s lips moved as if he were chanting, but no sound emerged that Conan could hear. Parchment-skinned hands moved in elaborate patterns, ending in a clap at chest height. And when Akiro’s hands parted another fireball hurtled from between his palms. Immediately he began gesturing again, but two corpses with blackened stumps where their heads had been were more than enough. Howling with terror the rag-clad spearmen threw down their weapons and ran into the deepening twilight. Their cries faded quickly to the south.
“Misbegotten, half-breed spawn of diseased camels!” Akiro muttered. He peered at his hands, blew on his palms, dusted them together. His wispy gray hair and long mustaches stood out in disarrayed spikes. He smoothed them angrily. “I will teach them a lesson to make their grandchildren’s grandchildren shake at the mention of my name. I will make their blood freeze and their bones quiver like jelly.”
“Akiro,” Conan said. Malak squatted to listen, an interested expression on his face.
“I will visit them with a plague of boils to the tenth generation. I will make their herds fail, and their manhoods whither, and their teeth fall out!”
“Akiro,” Conan said.
The saffron-skinned mage shook a fist in the direction of the fleeing men. “They claimed I maligned their gods. Gods!” He grimaced and spat. “Fool shamans do not know a fire elemental when they see one. I told them if they sacrificed one more child I would bring lightning down on their heads, and by the Nine-Fold Path of Power, I will do it!”
“Maybe you can’t,” Malak said. “I mean, they managed to tie you up and half cook you. Maybe you had better leave them alone.”
Akiro’s faced smoothed to an utter lack of expression. “Do not fear, Malak,” he said mildly. “I will not make your stones fall off.” Malak toppled over backwards, staring with bulging eyes at the wizard. “Is that proper respect that I see on your face?” Akiro asked gently. “Then I shall recount what happened. The three shamans, who call themselves priests, managed to put a spell on me while I slept. A minor spell, but it enabled their followers to fall on me and bind me.” His tone hardened as he spoke, and his voice rose higher word by word. “They tied my hands, so I could make no gesture of significance. They stuffed rags into my mouth,” he paused to spit, “so I could utter no words of power. Then they proposed to sacrifice me to their gods. Gods! I will show them gods! I shall be a demon in their pantheon, at least, before I am done! I—. That girl.”
Conan blinked. He had decided to let Akiro run out of wind—it was the only thing to do when the old mage got the bit firmly between his teeth like this—but the sudden softening of voice and change of subject caught him by surprise. Bombatta, he realized, was finally bringing Jehnna down from the hill. The pair of them were barely visible shapes in the dusk, and Conan, for all his mountainbred vision, would not have wagered that either was a woman had he not known it already.
“She is an innocent,” Akiro said, and Malak laughed shrilly.
“You mean that you can tell from here that she’s never—”
“Hold your tongue, Malak!” the old man snapped. “This has naught to do with the flesh. It is of the spirit, and it is a terrible thing.”
“Terrible!” Conan exclaimed. “It is not what I would chose for myself, but terrible?”
Akiro nodded. “Such must be protected like children till they gain some knowledge of the world, else they are fated to be prey. It is rare that an innocent occurs naturally. Most have been raised so for some sorcerous purpose.”
“Raised so,” Conan murmured, frowning. Well away from the hut, and the bodies before it, Bombatta was helping Jehnna down from her mount. The black-armored warrior stood between her and the charnel scene, not allowing her to look.
“Valeria,” Akiro said, and the Cimmerian started.
“She is part of why I came to you, Akiro.”
“Wait.” Akiro bustled into the rude hut. Oaths and the clatter of rummaging drifted out. When he returned he handed Conan a small, polished stone vial sealed with beeswax. “This is for Valeria,” he said.
“I do not understand,” Conan said.
Akiro pursed his lips and tugged at his mustaches, one with either hand. “Long did I study this question, Cimmerian. I tossed the Bones of Fate, read the stars, told the K’far cards, all to find an answer for what troubles you.”
“I am troubled no longer, Akiro. At least—”
“Do not dissemble with me,” the wizard cut him off. “How can I help if you do not speak truth to me? Valeria’s life and yours were most strongly intertwined. She was at once lover and companion warrior. She died in your place, and so strong was the bond between you that even death could not stop her returning to save you. Cimmerian, that great a bond between life and death is dangerous. Valeria would sever it herself if she knew, but some knowledge is hidden to those beyond the dark.”
“Akiro, I do not want the bond severed, and it is not necessary.”
“Listen to me, you stubborn northlander. You cannot cut your way out of this with a sword. I know your fate if you will not listen. The cards, the bones, the stars, all agree. Eventually the bond will pull you into a living death. You will find yourself trapped halfway between the world of the living and the world of the dead, but in neither, able to touch neither, for the rest of time. Only forgetfulness can save you. I went to great pains to concoct the potion in that vial. It will wipe from your mind all memory of Valeria. Naught connected to her will remain. Believe me, Cimmerian, could she know the choice you face, Valeria would tell you to drink from that vial without delay. She was not one to shirk a hard decision.”
“And if Valeria could return once more?” Conan asked quietly. “Not for moments, as she did before, but to live the rest of the life she should have had. What then, Akiro?”
The rotund mage was silent for a long moment. His eyes traveled to Jehnna, and he licked his lips slowly. “I think we must clear away these bodies so we can eat,” he said finally. “I shall need food in me to hear this.”
T
he old wizard would not take back his vial, and finally Conan stuffed it into his belt pouch. In the end it was he and Malak who dragged the corpses away. Akiro muttered vaguely about his back and his aged bones, though there was considerable muscle under those layers of fat. Bombatta again refused to leave Jehnna, or to let her come close enough to see what the big Cimmerian and his diminutive friend carried to the far side of the hill.
he old wizard would not take back his vial, and finally Conan stuffed it into his belt pouch. In the end it was he and Malak who dragged the corpses away. Akiro muttered vaguely about his back and his aged bones, though there was considerable muscle under those layers of fat. Bombatta again refused to leave Jehnna, or to let her come close enough to see what the big Cimmerian and his diminutive friend carried to the far side of the hill.
Akiro had said he required food before listening, and now he insisted on it. Rabbits taken that morning by the wizard—by the normal means of a sling and stone—were spitted and roasted, and a halffilled basket of small Corinthian oranges was produced from the hut. Finally the last bones were gnawed, and orange peels were tossed into the fire that cast a golden pool before the small hut. Bombatta took a wetstone from his pouch and bent himself to tending his tulwar’s edge. Malak began juggling three of the oranges to the delight of Jehnna, though he dropped one at every second pass.
“’Tis a part of the trick,” the wiry thief said as he picked an orange from the ground for the fourth time. “To make the later things I do seem even greater by comparison.”
Akiro touched Conan on the arm and motioned with his head to the darkness. The two men withdrew from the fire; none of the others seemed to notice their going.
When they had gone far enough that their voices would not carry back to the hut, Akiro said, “Now tell me how Valeria is to be brought back to life.”
Conan eyed the plump mage speculatively, though he could see nothing of his visage but shadows in the moonlight. Wizards did things in their own way and for their own reasons, even the most benign of them. Not that many could be called benign. Even Akiro, with whom he had traveled before, was largely a mystery to him. But then, was there
anyone
in all of this whom he could afford to trust totally?
anyone
in all of this whom he could afford to trust totally?
“Taramis,” Conan began, “the Princess Royal, has promised to return Valeria to me. Not as a shade, nor as an animated corpse, but living, as once she lived.”
The wizard was silent for a time, tugging at the long mustaches that framed his mouth. “I would not have thought to find one of such power alive in the world today,” he said finally. “Most especially not as a princess of the Zamoran Royal house.”
“You think she lies?” Conan sighed, but Akiro shook his head.
“Perhaps not. It is written that Malthaneus of Ophir did this thing a thousand years gone, and possibly Ahmad Al-Rashid, in Samara, twice so far in the past. It could be that it is time for the world to once more see such wonders.”
“Then you believe Taramis can do as she promised.”
“Of course,” Akiro continued musingly, “Malthaneus was the greatest white wizard since the Circle of the Right-Hand Path was broken in the days before Acheron, and Ahmad Al-Rashid, it is said, was thrice-blessed by Mitra himself.”
“You jump about like a monkey,” Conan growled. “Can you not say one thing or another and stick to it?”
“I can say that this thing has been done in the past. I can say that Taramis
may
be able to do it.” He paused, and Conan thought his bushy gray brows had drawn down into a frown. “But why should she do it for you?”
may
be able to do it.” He paused, and Conan thought his bushy gray brows had drawn down into a frown. “But why should she do it for you?”
In as few words as possible the Cimmerian told of the quest on which he accompanied Jehnna, of the key and the treasure and the short time that remained.
“A Stygian,” Akiro muttered when he had finished. “It is said that there is no people without some spark of good in them, but never have I found a Stygian I would trust long enough to turn around twice.”
“He must be a powerful sorcerer,” Conan said. “No doubt too powerful for you.”
Akiro wheezed a short laugh. “Do not try that game on me, youngling. I am too old to be snared so easily. I have those accursed hedge-wizards to deal with.”
“I would not find your company amiss, Akiro.”
“I am too old to go riding off into the mountains, Cimmerian. Come, let us go back to the fire. The nights are cold here, and the fire is warm.” Rubbing his hands together, the gray-haired mage did not wait for Conan to follow.
“At least Bombatta will be quieted,” Conan muttered. “He has been afraid Malak or you would upset some part of the prophecy of Skelos.”
Akiro froze with one foot lifted for his next step. Slowly he turned back to face the big youth. “Skelos?”
“Aye, the Scrolls of Skelos. They tell what is to be found on this quest, and what must be done for it to succeed, or so says Taramis. You know of this Skelos?”
“A thaumaturge centuries dead,” Akiro replied absently, “who wrote many volumes of sorcerous lore. All now as rare as virgins in Shadizar.” He thrust his head forward, staring intently at Conan through the darkness. “Taramis has these in her possession? The Scrolls of Skelos?”
“She quoted from them as if she does. She must. Where are you going?”
Akiro was disappearing toward the hut with a quickness that belied his complaints of feebleness. “Time is short, you say,” he called over his shoulder. “We must leave for the mountains before first light, and I need my sleep.”
Smiling, Conan strolled after him. Betimes, he thought, the best snare was one you did not know you had laid.
When the Cimmerian reached the fire Jehnna sat staring into the flames with daydreaming eyes. Bombatta, still drawing the wetstone along his blade, shot irritable glances at Malak, who sprawled beneath a blanket with snores like ripping sailcloth coming from his open mouth. The scar-faced warrior was not the only one bothered by the allintrusive sound. From within the hut came angry mutters, of which only the words “ … need my sleep,” “ … old bones,” and “ … like an ox with a bad belly,” were recognizable.
Abruptly Akiro’s frowning face appeared in the doorway of the hut, eyes fixed intently on Malak and lips moving. Malak’s snore ended as if sliced by a razor. With a gasp the wiry thief bolted upright, staring about him fearfully. Akiro was no longer to be seen. Hesitantly, one hand feeling at his throat, Malak stretched himself out again. His breathing deepened quickly, but barely enough to be heard above the crackle of the fire. Moments . later snorting rumbles began to erupt from the hut.
Jehnna giggled. “Is he going with us?”
“Yes.” Conan sat crosslegged beside her. “We will leave before the sun rises.”
“In the direction I say, this time?”
“In the direction you say.”
He could feel her eyes on him; they made him unaccustomedly awkward. He had no small experience with women. He could deal with impudent serving girls and old merchants’ too-young wives, with brazen doxies and nobles’ hot-eyed daughters. This girl was a virgin and more. An innocent, Akiro termed her, and Conan thought the word fit. Still, there was one thing that did
not
fit with that description.
not
fit with that description.
“Before,” Conan said, “when Bombatta and I all but came to blows, you changed, for a space of moments at least. You sounded much like Taramis.”
“For a few moments I was Taramis.” His eyes widened, and she giggled. “Oh, not in truth. I did not want the two of you fight, so I pretended that I was my aunt, and that two of the servants were squabbling.”
“I am no servant,” Conan said sharply.
Jehnna seemed taken aback. “Why do you sound offended? You serve my aunt, and me. Bombatta is not offended that he is my aunt’s servant.”
The sussuration of wetstone on steel stopped, unnoticed by the two at the fire.
“He can bend his knee if he wishes,” Conan said. “I hire my sword and my skill for a day, or for ten, but I am servant to no man, woman or god.”
“All the same,” she replied, “I am glad that you accompany me. I cannot remember ever speaking more than two words together to anyone other than my aunt, or Bombatta, or my dressing maids. You are very different, and interesting. It is all different and interesting. The sky and the stars and so many leagues and leagues of open space.”
He stared into her big brown eyes and felt a hundred years older than she. As lovely a maiden as he had ever seen, he thought, and so very truly the innocent indeed, unknowing of the feelings she could raise in a man. “It is a dangerous land,” he muttered, “and the mountains are more so, even without a Stygian sorcerer. This is no place for you.”
“It is my destiny,” she said simply, and he grunted.
“Why? Because it is written in the Scrolls of Skelos?”
“Because I was marked at birth. Look.”
Before his astonished eyes Jehnna tugged down the neck of her robes, shrugging, until her satiny olive-skinned breasts were bared almost to the nipples. Sweet mounds made to nestle in a man’s palms, the Cimmerian thought, his throat suddenly tight.
“See?” Jehnna said. “Here. This mark I bore at birth, naming my destiny. It is described in the scrolls, but it was the gods who chose me.”
There was a birthmark, he saw, in the valley between her breasts. A red eight-pointed star, no bigger than a man’s thumbnail and as precisely formed as if drawn by a craftsman.
Abruptly curved steel slashed down to shine in the firelight between them.
“Do not touch her, thief,” Bombatta grated.
“Not ever!”
Conan opened his mouth for an angry reply, then realized that he had indeed been stretching a hand toward the girl. The gleaming blade hung before his fingertips as if it was the tulwar he had meant to stroke. Furious with himself, Cimmerian straightened, returning Bombatta’s glare.
Jehnna’s eyes traveled from one man to the other, a strange expression crossing her face as if thoughts new and disturbing had come to her.
“It is late,” Conan said harshly. “Best we all sleep, for we must travel early.”
Bombatta held out his free hand to help Jehnna rise, still holding his blade before her as if it were a shield. Conan’s eyes did not leave those of the scarred warrior while the huge Zamoran backed away, leading Jehnna. The girl glanced once at the tall Cimmerian youth, her eyes troubled, but she allowed herself to be bundled into her blankets without speaking. As on the previous night Bombatta set himself before her as a guard.
Muttering curses under his breath, Conan wrapped himself in his own blankets. This was foolishness, he told himself. There were women enough in the world that he did not let himself be entangled by a girl who likely did not even know what she did. She was a child, no matter her age. He slept, and his sleep was filled with dreams of lush-bodied Taramis and the night of lust they had shared. Yet often, in those dreams, he would look, and it would be not Taramis he held, but Jehnna. His sleep was not a restful one.
Blackness hung thickly over Shadizar, and the tapestried halls of Taramis’ palace were empty as she made her way from her sleeping chamber. The only sound was the brushing of her long silken robe on the polished marble tiles of the corridors. Her astrologers and the priests of the ancient worship she revived came often to the great hall she entered, but the nocturnal visits that she made with increasing frequency, she made alone.
About the edges of the room cunningly hooded golden lamps gave off a soft glow that could have been moonlight, so pale was it. The floor was black marble, polished to a mirror sheen, and fluted alabaster columns supported the high, arched ceiling, tiled with onyx and set with sapphires and diamonds to represent the night sky, the sky as it would be on one night in each thousand years.
Centered beneath that false sky was a couch carved of crimson marble, polished with the hair of virgins, and on it lay what seemed to be the alabaster statue of a man with his eyes closed, nude and half again as large as any living man, more handsome than any mortal man could ever be. But a single thing marred the perfection. Sunk to the depth of half a finger joint in the broad forehead was a black depression, a circle as wide as man’s hand. There was about the figure a sense of timeless waiting.
Slowly Taramis approached the marble couch, stopping at its foot. Her gaze roamed the alabaster form, and her breath quickened. Many men had she had in her life, choosing the first most carefully at sixteen, choosing each since with as great a care. Men she knew as well as she knew the rooms of her own palace. But what would it be like to be the lover of … a god?
She slipped her robe from her shoulders and sank naked to her knees at the feet of the figure. No word in the Scrolls of Skelos required this of her, but she wanted more than even they promised.
Pressing her face to those cold, alabaster soles she whispered, “I am thine, O great Dagoth.”
A compulsion to go further than ever before seized her, and she rained moaning kisses on those feet. Slowly she worked her way upwards, leaving no portion of that pale surface undampened by her ardent lips, caressing it with her lush roundness, until she writhed atop the great form as she would atop a man. Trembling fingers reached up to softly stroke the face.
“I am thine, O great Dagoth,” she whispered again, “and forever will I be thine. When thou wakeneth I will build temples to thee, overturning the temples of other gods, but I will be more than thy priestess. Thy godly flesh will merge with mine, and I will hold myself chaste hereafter, save for thee. I will sit on thy right hand, and by thy grace will I receive the ultimate powers over life and death. Once more will the sacrifices be made to thee, and once more to thee will the nations bow. All this I vow, O great Dagoth, and seal it with my flesh and my soul.”
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