Conan the Unconquered

by Robert Jordan

  “No, Great Lord,” the Khitan said finally. “But we beg, Suitai and I, that we be allowed to use our talents in your service. Not since … .” His voice trailed off. Suitai glanced up from placing the last of the bottles, then studiously avoided looking at either of the other two men again.

  Jhandar’s face darkened. To speak of the distant past was one thing, to speak of the near past another. He disliked being reminded of failure and ignominy. Effort went into keeping his voice normal, but it still came out like the grate of steel on rock. “Fool! Your talents, as you call them, destroy the essence of the man, as you well know. There is naught left for me to summon when you kill. When I need your abilities again, if I need them again, I will command you. Unles you wish to step within the circle and be commanded now?”

  Suitai stumbled hurriedly from the patch of dirt. “No, Great Lord,” Che Fan replied hastily. “I beg forgiveness for my presumption.” As one, the two assassins bowed low.

  Jhandar left them so for a moment, then spoke. “Rise. In the days ahead there will be labors to sate even your desires. Now get you gone until I call again. I have my own labors to perform.”

  As they bowed their way from his presence, he put them from his awareness. There were more important matters which needed all of his attention.

  From beneath his robes he produced a piece of black chalk. Atop four of the pillars, equidistantly spaced about the circle, he marked the ancient Khitan ideograms for the four seasons, chanting as he did in a language not even he understood, though he well understood the effect of the words. Next were drawn the ideograms for the four humors, then the four elements, and all the while he intoned the primordial spells. But one of the short, square pillars remained. He drew the symbol for life, then quickly, over it, the symbol of death.

  A chill rose in the air, till his words came in puffs of white, and his voice took on a hollow aspect, as though he called from a vast deep. Mist roiled over the circle of earth, blue and flecked with silver, like the mist above the Pool of the Ultimate, yet pale and transparent. The hairs on Jhandar’s arms and legs stirred and rose. He could feel the Power flowing through him, curling around his bones.

  In the center of the mist light flashed, argent and azure lightning. In silence the air of the chamber quivered, as to a monstrous clap of thunder. Within the circle every stone jar shattered into numberless grains of dust, and the parched dirt drank blood. The tenuous vapors above began to glow.

  Never ceasing his incantation, Jhandar sought within himself for the root of the Power that coursed his veins, seized on it, bent it to his bidding. With every fiber of his being he willed a summoning, he commanded a summoning, he forced a summoning.

  Blood-clotted earth cracked and broke, and a hand reached up from the crack to claw at the surface, a hand withered and twisted, its nails like claws, its skin a mottled moldy gray-green. In another blood-soaked place the ground split, and monstrously deformed hands dug upward, outward. Then another, and another. A slavering panting beat its way up from below the surface. Inexorably drawn by Jhandar’s chant, they dug their way from the bowels of the earth, stumpy misshapen creatures bearing little resemblance to humankind, for all they were the summoned corporeal manifestations of the essences of murdered men and women. There were no distinctions now between male and female. Neuter all, they were, with hairless mottled skin stretched tightly over domed skulls whose opalescent eyes had seen the grave from inside. Their lipless mouths emitted a cacophony of howls and lamentations.

  Jhandar stopped his chant, reluctantly felt the Power pour from him like water from a ewer. As the Power went, so did the mist within the circle. The ravening creatures turned to him, seeming to see him for the first time, their cries rising.

  “Be silent!” he shouted, and all sound was gone as if cut off with a knife.

  He it was who had summoned; they could not but obey, though some glared at him with hellborn fury. Some few always did.

  “Hear you my words. Each of you will return to the house that you served in life.” A low moan rose and was stilled. “There, in incorporeal form, you will watch, and listen. What your former masters and mistresses do not want known, you will tell to me when I summon you again. Nothing else will you do unless I command.” That last was necessary, he had learned, though there was little they could do without being told to.

  “I hear,” came the muttering moans, “and obey.”

  “Then by the blood and earth and Power of Chaos by which I summoned you, begone.”

  With a crack of inrushing air the twisted shapes disappeared.

  Jhandar smiled when he left the chamber. Already he knew more of the secrets of Turan than any ten other men. Already, with a whisper in the proper ear of what the owner of that ear would die to keep secret, he influenced decisions at the highest levels. Nay, he made those decisions. Soon the throne itself would bow to his will. He would not demand that his position as true ruler of Turan be made known to all. That he ruled would be enough. First Turan, then perhaps Zamora, and then … .

  “Great Lord.”

  Reverie broken, Jhandar glared at the shaven-headed man who had accosted him in a main corridor of his palatial quarters. Lamps of gold and silver, made from melted-down jewelry provided by new members of the Cult, cast glittering lights from walls worked in porphyry and amber.

  “Why do you disturb me, Zephran?” he demanded. Not even the Chosen were allowed to approach him unbidden.

  “Forgive me, Great Lord,” Zephran answered, bowing low, “but I had a most distressing encounter in the city near dusk.”

  “Distressing encounter? What are you blathering about? I have no time for foolishness.”

  “It was a barbarian, Great Lord, who spoke of sacrifices within the Cult, of the altar and the use of blood.”

  Jhandar clutched his robes in white-knuckled fists. “Hyrkanian? He was Hyrkanian?”

  “Nay, Great Lord.”

  “He must have been.”

  “Nay, Great Lord. His skin was pale where not bronzed by the sun, and his eyes were most strange, as blue as the sea.”

  Jhandar sagged against the wall. In Hyrkania, across the Vilayet Sea, he had first founded the Cult, first created and confined a Pool of Chaos. He would have welded the scattered Hyrkanian tribes of fierce horsemen into a single force that moved at his word. He would have launched such a wave of warriors as would have washed over Turan and Zamora and all to the West until it came to the sea. He would have … .

  But the spirit manifestations had not been properly controlled. They had managed to communicate to the living what occurred within the compound he was building, and the tribesmen had ridden against him, slaughtering his followers. Only by loosing the Power, turning a part of the Hyrkanian steppes into a hell, had be himself managed to escape. They believed in blood vengeance, those Hyrkanians. Deep within him was the seed of fear, fear that they would follow him across the sea. Ridiculous, he knew, yet he could not rid himself of it.

  “Great Lord,” Zephran said diffidently, “I do not understand why filthy Hyrkanians should concern you. The few I have seen in—”

  “You understand nothing,” Jhandar snarled. “This barbarian. You killed him?”

  Zephran shifted uneasily. “Great Lord, I … I lost him in the night and the crowd among the taverns near the harbor.”

  “Fool! Roust your fellows from their beds! Find that barbarian! He must die! No! Bring him to me. I must find out how many others know. Well, what are you waiting for? Go, fool! Go!”

  Zephran ran, leaving Jhandar staring at nothing. Not again, the necromancer thought. He would not fail again. He would pull the world down in ruins if need be, but he would not fail.

  VI

  Conan descended to the common room of the Blue Bull taking each step with care. He did not truly believe that his head would crack if he took a misstep, but he saw no reason to take a chance. The night before had turned into a seemingly endless procession of tavern after tavern, of tankard after tan
kard. And all he had gotten for his trouble was a head like a barrel.

  He spotted Sharak, digging eagerly into a bowl of stew, and winced at the old man’s enthusiasm. With a sigh he dropped onto a bench at the astrologer’s table.

  “Do you have to be so vigorous about that, Sharak?” the Cimmerian muttered. “It’s enough to turn a man’s stomach.”

  “The secret is clean living,” Sharak cackled gleefully. “I live properly, so I never have to worry about a head full of wine fumes. Or seldom, at least. And it brings me luck. Last night, asking about for Emilio, I discovered that the strumpets of this city fancy Zamoran astrology. And do you know why?”

  “What did you find out about Emilio, Sharak?”

  “Because it’s foreign. They think anything imported must be better. Of course, some of them want to pay in other coin than gold or silver.” He cackled again. “I spent the night in the arms of a wench with the most marvelous—”

  “Sharak. Emilio?”

  The gaunt old man sighed. “If you wanted to boast a bit, I wouldn’t stop you. Oh, very well. Not that I discovered much. No one has seen him for at least two nights. Three different people, though—two of them trulls—told me Emilio claimed he would come into a great deal of gold yesterday. Perhaps someone did him in for it.”

  “I’d back Emilio against any man in this city,” Conan replied, “with swords, knives or bare hands.” But there was no enthusiasm in his voice. He was sure now that Emilio was dead, had died while trying to steal the necklace. And while dead drunk, at that. “I should have gone with him,” he muttered.

  “Gone where?” Sharak asked. “No matter. More than one was counting on his having this gold. I myself heard the gamester Narxes make such dire threats against Emilio as to put me off eating.” He shoveled more stew into his mouth. “Then there’s Nafar the Panderer, and a Kothian moneylender named Fentras, and even a Turanian soldier, a sergeant, looking for him. As he still lives, he’s left Aghrapur, and wisely so.”

  “Emilio intended to steal from the compound of the Cult of Doom, Sharak. I think me he tried two nights past.”

  “Then he is dead,” Sharak sighed. “That place has acquired a bad name among the Brotherhood of the Shadows. Some thieves say ’tis doom even to think of stealing from them.”

  “He meant to steal a necklace of thirteen rubies for a woman with blonde hair. He wanted me to aid him.”

  The old astrologer tossed his spoon into the bowl of stew. “Mayhap your chart …” he said slowly. “These eyes are old, Conan. ’Tis possible what I saw was merely an effect of your association with Emilio.”

  “And it’s possible men can fly without magic,” Conan laughed ruefully. “No, old friend. Never have I known you to make a mistake in your star-reading. The meaning was clear. I must enter that compound and steal the necklace.”

  Conan’s bench creaked as a man suddenly dropped onto it beside him. “And I must go with you,” he said. Conan looked at him. It was the hard-eyed, black-skinned Turanian army sergeant he had seen asking after Emilio. “I am called Akeba,” the sergeant added.

  The big Cimmerian let his hand rest lightly on the worn leather hilt of his broadsword. “’Tis a bad habit, listening to other men’s conversation,” he said with dangerous quietness.

  “I care not if you steal every last pin from the cult,” Akeba said. His hands rested on the table, and he seemed to take no notice of Conan’s sword.

  “’Twas rumored this Emilio did not fear to enter that place, but I heard you say he is dead. I have need to enter the compound, and need of a man to guard my back, a man who does not fear the cult. If you go there, I will go with you.”

  Sharak cleared his throat. “Pray tell us why a sergeant of the Turanian army would want to enter that compound in secret.”

  “My daughter, Zorelle.” Akeba’s face twisted momentarily with pain. “She was taken by this Mitra-accursed cult. Or joined, I know not which. They will not allow me to speak to her, but I have seen her once, at a distance. She no longer looks as she did before falling into their hands. Her face is cold, and she does not smile. Zorelle wore a smile always. I will bring her out of there.”

  “Your daughter,” Conan snorted. “I must needs go with stealth. The stealth of two men is the tenth part that of one. Add the need to drag a weeping girl along … .” He snorted again.

  “How will you steal so much as a drink of water if I summon my men to arrest you?” Akeba demanded.

  Conan’s fist tightened on his sword hilt. “You will summon no one from your grave,” he growled. Akeba reached for his own blade, and the two men began to rise.

  “Be not fools!” Sharak said sharply. “You, Akeba, will never see your daughter again if your skull is cloven in this tavern. And Conan, you know the dangers of what you intend. Could not another sword be of use?”

  “Not that of a blundering soldier,” Conan replied. His eyes were locked with those of the Turanian, blue and black alike as hard as iron. “His feet are made for marching, not the quiet of thieving.”

  “Three years,” Akeba said, “I was a scout against the Ibarri mountain tribes, yet I still have my life and my manhood. From the size of you, you look to be as quiet as a bull.”

  “A scout?” the Cimmerian said thoughtfully. The man had some skill at quietness, then. Perhaps Sharak had a point. It was all too possible that he could use another blade. Besides, killing a soldier would make it near impossible for him to remain in Aghrapur.

  Conan lowered himself slowly back to the bench, and Akeba followed. For a moment their eyes remained locked; then, as at a signal, each loosed his grip on his sword.

  “Now that is settled,” Sharak said, “there is the matter of oaths to bind us all together in this enterprise.”

  “Us?” Akeba said with a questioning look.

  Conan shook his head. “I still do not know if this soldier is coming with me or not, but I do know that you are not. Find yourself a wench who wants her stars read. I can recommend one here, if you mind not a head full of beads.”

  “Who will watch your horses,” Sharak asked simply, “while you two heroes are being heroic inside the compound? Besides, Conan, I told you I’ve never had an adventure. At my age, this may be my last chance. And I do have this.” He brandished his walking staff. “It could be useful.”

  Akeba frowned. “It’s a stick.” He looked at Conan.

  “The thing has magical powers, the Cimmerian said, and dropped his eyelid.

  After a moment the dark man smiled faintly. “As you say.” His face grew serious. “As to the compound, I would have this thing done quickly.”

  “Tonight,” Conan said. “I, too, want it done.”

  “The oaths,” Sharak chimed in. “Let us not forget the oaths.”

  The three men put their heads together.

  VII

  Leaving Sharak beneath a tree to mind the horses, Conan and Akeba set out through the night in a crouching run for the alabaster-walled compound of the Cult of Doom. Within those walls ivory towers thrust into the night, and golden-finialed purple domes were one with the dark amethystine sky. Scudding clouds cast shifting moon-lit shadows, and the two men were but two shades in the night. A thousand paces distant, the Vilayet Sea beat itself to white froth against the rocky shore.

  At the base of the wall they quickly unlimbered the coiled ropes they carried across their shoulders. Twin grapnels, well padded with cloth, hurtled into the air, caught atop the wall with muffled clatters.

  Massive arms and shoulders drew Conan upward with the agility of a great ape. At the top of the wall he paused, feeling along that hard, smooth surface. Akeba scrambled up beside him and, without pausing to check the top of the wall, clambered over. Conan’s dismay that the other had done so—it was the error of a greenling thief—was tempered by the fact that there were no shards of pottery and broken stone set in the wall to rip the flesh of the unwary.

  Conan pulled himself over the wall and, holding his grapnel well out to
one side, let himself fall. He took the shock of the drop by tucking a shoulder under and rolling, coming to his feet smoothly. He was in a landscaped garden, exotic shrubs and trees seemingly given life by the moving shadows. Akeba was hastily coiling his rope.

  “Remember,” Conan said, “we meet at the base of the tallest tower in the compound.”

  “I remember,” Akeba muttered.

  There had been more than a little discussion over which man’s task was to be carried out first. Akeba feared that, in stealing the necklace, Conan might rouse guards, while Conan was sure the sergeant’s daughter could not be rescued without raising an alarm. The women’s quarters were certain to be guarded, while Emilio had intimated that the necklace was unguarded. It had been Sharak who effected a compromise: Conan would go after the necklace while Akeba located the women’s quarters. Then they would meet and together solve the problem of getting Zorelle out. Agreement had been more reluctant on Akeba’s part than on Conan’s. The Cimmerian was not certain he needed a companion on this venture, for all Sharak’s urging.

  With a last doubtful glance at the Turanian, Conan hurried away, his pantherine stride carrying him swiftly through the night. He remembered well Emilio’s description of the necklace’s location. The topmost chamber of the lone tower in a garden on the east side of the compound. They had entered over the east wall, and looming out of the night ahead was a tower, square and tall. He slowed to a walk, approaching it with silent care. A short distance away he stopped. There was enough light from the moon, barely, with which to see.

  Of smooth greenstone, surrounded by a walk of dark tiles some seven or eight paces in width, the tower had no openings save an open arch at ground level and a balcony around its top. The onion-dome roof glittered beneath the moon as if set with gems.