Conan the Unconquered

by Robert Jordan

  “There is no need for me to accompany you, Conan,” Sharak said. “My eyes. I would be more hindrance than help. No, I must remain here and learn what I can of our prospects from the stars.” He suddenly clutched the arm of a surprised Tamur, and though the Hyrkanian tried to shake himself free, Sharak clung tightly, pulling on the other man. “Can you tell one star from another, Hyrkanian? No matter. I will tell you what to look for. Come.” The two moved off to the side, Tamur still jerking futilely at his arm.

  “I, at least, will come with you,” Akeba said, but Conan shook his head.

  “Samarra told me that any who enters other than myself will die.” She had said no such thing, but what she did say convinced him that two men, or fifty, would have no better chances of survival than one, and perhaps less.

  “Oh. Then I will await your return, Cimmerian. You are an odd fellow, but I like you. Fare you well.”

  Conan clapped the slighter man on the shoulder. “Take a pull at the hellhorn, an you get there before me, Akeba.”

  “What? ’Tis a strange thing to say.”

  “Other countries, other customs,” Conan said. “It is a way of saying fare you well.” His amusement faded abruptly as he eyed the stone pillars. It was time to be on with it. His blade slid from its scabbard, steel rasping on leather.

  “Strange, indeed, you pale-eyed barbarians,” Akeba said. “Well, you take a pull at the … whatever it was you said.”

  But Conan was already moving forward. Without pausing, the Cimmerian strode by the crude pillars, sword at the ready. As he did, a tingle passed through his body, as if nails and teeth had all been dragged across slate at once. The greatest tingle was at his waist, beneath the pouch at his belt. Samarra had warned him of this, and told him to ignore it, but he fumbled for the two smaller sacks anyway. Both were intact.

  There was no growth of any kind, not even the tough grass that covered the plains of Hyrkania. The ground was smooth, yet ridged, as if it had flowed then hardened in waves. He had seen such before, where fissures had opened and the bowels of the earth had spewed forth molten rock. The moonlight here was tinged with the xanthous color of flesh gone to mold. Shadows moved furtively in that nacreous light, though no clouds crossed the moon.

  Had he been the hero of a saga, he thought, he would seek out those creatures and hack his way to the Inner Circle. But the heroes of sagas always had the luck of ten men, and used it all. He went on, deeper into the Blasted Lands, moving with pantherine grace, yet carefully, as if avoiding seeking eyes. That eyes were there, or something that sensed movement, he was certain. Strange slitherings sounded from the rocks around him, and clickings, as of chitinous claws on stone. Once he did indeed see eyes, three unblinking red orbs, set close together, peering at him from the dark beside a boulder, swiveling to follow his passage. He quickened his pace. The sound of scraping claws came closer, and more quickly. A piping hiss rose, behind and either side, like the hunting cry of a pack.

  Abruptly there was silence. Did the shadow creatures attack in silence, he wondered, or had they ceased their pursuit? And if they had, why? What could lie ahead that would frighten … .? The answer came as he skidded to a halt, a bare pace from a pillar marking the deadly Inner Circle.

  Despite himself he let out a long breath. But he still lived, and perhaps fear of the barrier would hold whatever followed at bay for a time longer. Behind he heard the hissing begin again. Hastily he pulled one leather sack from his pouch and sprinkled the scintillating powder in a long line by the stone pillar. With great care he spoke the words Samarra had taught him, and a shimmering appeared in the air above the line, as wide as a man’s outstretched arms and reaching nearly as high as the stone marker. Within that shimmer the barrier was weakened, not destroyed, so Samarra said. A strong man could survive passing through it. So she said.

  The scraping claws were louder, and the hissing. Whatever made those sounds was almost to him. Taking a deep breath, he leaped. The hisses rose to a scream of frustrated hunger, and then he struck the shimmer. Every muscle in his body knotted and convulsed in agony. Back arched, he was hurled into the Inner Circle.

  Head spinning, he staggered to his feet. Somehow he had retained his sword. If that was a weakened barrier, he thought, he wanted no part of it at full strength. He checked his pouch again. The second sack was still safe.

  Whatever had hunted him had gone, suck back into those writhing shades outside the Inner Circle. The shimmer in the barrier yet held, but by the time he could count to one hundred the force of its protection would be gone. That second portion of the powder was his only way of crossing the barrier again, unless he went now. Turning his back on the shimmer, he went deeper into that twisted country.

  Blasted Lands they were indeed. Here hills were split by gaping fissures, or stood in tortured remnants as if parts had been vaporized. Fumaroles bubbled and steamed, and the air was heavy with the stench of a decay so old that only sorcery could have kept it from disappearing long since. Foul vapors drifted in sheets, like noxious clouds hugging the ground; they left a feel of dampness and filth on the skin they touched.

  Samarra had told him where Jhandar’s unfinished palace had stood on that day when nightmares were loosed. What he might find there she could not say—the forces unleashed had been more than even the shamans could face—but it was the only place she could suggest for his search. In the midst of these hills the land had been leveled for the palace. Ahead he saw the hills end. It must be the location.

  He hurried forward, around a sheer cliff where half a hill had disappeared, out onto the great leveled space … and stopped, shoulders sagging in defeat.

  Before him marble steps led up to a portico of massive, broken columns. Beyond, where the palace should have stood, a huge pit opened into the depths, a pit that pulsed with red light and echoed with the bubbling of boiling rock far below.

  There could be nothing there, he told himself. And yet there must be. Samarra had foretold that his entry into the Blasted Lands would bring at least the chance of Jhandar’s destruction. Somewhere within that blighted region something must exist that could be used against the necromancer. He had to find it.

  A slavering roar spun him around, an involuntary, “Crom!” wrenched from his lips.

  Facing him was a creature twice the height of a man, its gangrenous flesh dripping phosphorescent slime. A single rubiate eye set in the middle of its head watched him with a horrifying glimmer of intelligence, but with hunger as well. And that gaping fanged maw, the curving needle claws that tipped its fingers, told what it chose to eat.

  Even as the creature faced him, Conan acted. Waving his sword, he screamed as if about to attack. The beast reared back to take his charge, and Conan darted for the cliff. A being of such size could not be his equal at scaling sheer heights, he thought.

  Thrusting his blade into its scabbard as he ran, he reached the cliff and climbed without slowing, fingers searching out crevices and holds with a speed he had never matched before. Chances he would have eschewed if men had pursued him he now took as a matter of course, hooking his fingernails in cracks he could not even see, planting his feet on stone that crumbled at his weight, yet moving with such desperate quickness that he was gone before its crumbling was complete. Catching the top of the cliff, he heaved himself over, lay with chest heaving.

  A slime-covered, clawed hand slammed down a handsbreadth from his head. Cursing, Conan rolled to his feet, blade whispering into his grip. Its eye above the rim of the cliff, the beast saw him and roared, clawing with its free hand for him instead of securing its hold. Burnished steel blazed an arc through the air, severing the hand that held the ground. With a scream like all the fiends of the pit the beast toppled back, and down, into the fetid mists. The crash of its fall sent a shiver through the cliff that Conan could feel through his boots.

  The clawed hand, faintly glowing, still lay where he had severed it. Glowing slime oozed from it like blood. He was relieved, after the sendings in Aghr
apur, to see that it did not so much as twitch by itself. With the tip of his sword he flipped it into the vapors below.

  Even through the clouded gloom Conan could yet see the broken pillars of Jhandar’s palace; from his vantage point they were outlined in the fiery glow from the pit. No use could he see in returning there, however. His search must lead elsewhere. He started down the steep slope that backed the cliff, leaping to cross the fissures that slashed and re-slashed the terrain, dodging among boulders, crazed with a thousand lines like illmended pottery, abruptly lost in fetid gray curtains of drifting mist then as suddenly revealed again.

  Stone clattered against stone behind him, toward the top of the precipitous slope. Weighing the broadsword in his hand, Conan peered back, attempting in vain to pierce the sheets of fog. He could have missed seeing some small creature on the clifftop in the mists. A thud, as of a heavy body falling, drifted down to him. He could not have missed something large enough to … . Then the one-eyed beast was rushing at him out of the vapors, clawed hand and the stump of its severed wrist both raised to strike.

  Conan leaped back. And found himself falling into a gaping fissure. Twisting like a great cat he caught the rock rim, slammed against it supported only by a forearm. Dislodged stone rattled into the depths of the broad crack, the sound dwindling away without striking bottom, as if the drop went on forever.

  The beast was moving too fast to stop. With a roar of frustrated rage it leaped for the far side of the fissure, its lone red eye glaring at the big Cimmerian. Awkwardly Conan thrust up at the creature with his broadsword as it passed over him. Snarling, the beast curled into a ball to avoid the blade, hit heavily on the other side of the wide crack, and went rolling down the steep slope, its cries of fury ripping through the fog.

  Hurriedly Conan pulled himself out of the fissure. Silence descended abruptly, but he took that for no sign of the beast’s demise. Not now.

  As if to confirm his dire suspicions came the sound of scrabbling claws and hungry panting. The creature yet survived, and was climbing toward him.

  Being above on the slope might give him slight advantage—perhaps—but the young Cimmerian had not come to this hellish place to slay monsters. He began to run down the length of the crevice, cursing under his breath at every stone that turned beneath his boot and clattered downhill. Sheer distance from where the thing had last seen him would be his safeguard. At least, it would be so long as the beast did not hear him and follow. Had he half the luck of those ill-begotten heroes of the thrice-accursed sagas, the creature would make bootless search of the hill while he completed his own quest.

  Halting, he pricked his ears for sounds of the one-eyed beast … and heard it still directly below him, but nearer now. Black Erlik’s Bowels and Bladder! He wished he had half a score of those feckless spinners of tales there with him, to see what trials men of flesh and bone faced when confronted with the monsters so easily despatched with words in a market square. He would have fed two or three of them to the beast, feet first.

  An he was forced to face the creature—and he could see no other way—the time and the place were as any others. Did he continue to run, the facing would merely be at another place, perhaps when he had run himself to exhaustion. Mayhap it would be off balance for a moment, leaping across the fissure from down slope. If he attacked then … . At that moment he noticed that the fissure he had followed had dwindled to a handspan crack.

  For a moment the Cimmerian was too angry even to curse. For a simple lack of keeping his eyes open he had placed himself in worse danger. The great beast was no more than fifty paces straight down the slope, with only the steepness to slow it and naught between it and … . Straight down the slope. He peered toward the climbing beast. Its red eye was visible, glowing, as was the pale, leprous phosphoresence of its body; and it was making better going of the shattered hillside than any human could have. It seemed to move with the speed and tenacity of a leopard.

  Conan knew he needed long headstart on the creature if he was to escape it long enough to carry out his search; still, the merest breath of a chance had come to his brain, as fresh air in the foulness about him.

  He cast about hurriedly for what he needed, and found it but ten paces away, a shadowy bulk near as tall as he, but seeming squat for its thickness, obscured by a curtain of fog that clung rather than drifting. Quickly his eyes sought the beast. Some forty paces below, the glowing mass edged sideways until it was once more directly below the Cimmerian. Forty paces. Conan waited.

  The slavering beast clawed its way nearer, nearer. Thirty-five paces. Thirty. Conan could hear its rasping pant now. Ravenous hunger was in it as well, and in that sanguinary eye was something else, a pure desire to kill divorced from the need for meat. The hairs on the back of his neck stirred. Twenty-five paces. Twenty. Conan drifted back, through the sheet of filthy gray mist behind him. Screaming with rage, not to be denied, the creature quickened its climb.

  Knees bent, Conan set his broad back to the uphill side of the boulder he had chosen and heaved. Shrieks of primordial rage echoed over the hills. The Cimmerian’s every thew strained, great muscles corded and knotted till they seemed carved from some more obdurate substance than the stone with which he fought. The boulder shifted a fingerwidth. The howls came closer. In moments the foul creature would be upon him. The sweat of effort at the limits of human ability rolled down Conan’s face and chest. The great stone moved again. And then it was rolling free.

  Conan spun in time to see the boulder strike the now narrow crack in the hillside, bound into the air, and catch the monstrous creature full in the chest. Even as the beast was borne backward down the slope, screaming and clawing at the massive stone as if it were a living enemy, Conan set off at a dead run, diagonally down the hill, leaping crevices with reckless disregard for the dangers of falling, racing toward the barrier.

  He did not intend to leave the Inner Circle yet, but neither did he believe the boulder would slay the one-eyed beast. He would not believe that being could die until he had seen it dead. Or perhaps it already was; he had seen stranger things. But in the Outer Circle, the unseen things with claws had feared to approach the barrier. Could he reach those deadly wards before the one-eyed creature freed itself, it was possible the monstrous being would not search for him there.

  Through curtains of noxious mist Conan ran like a ghostly panther, past pools of bubbling, steaming mud and geysers that sprayed boiling fountains into the night. The columns marking the barrier appeared ahead in the sickly sallow moonlight.

  In a silent rush the one-eyed beast hurtled from the fog, lunging for Conan. Desperately the Cimmerian threw himself aside; scythe-like claws ripped across the front of his tunic, slashing it to tatters. He rolled to his feet, broadsword at the ready, facing the towering creature. Rumbling growls sounded deep in the beast’s throat as it edged toward him. It had learned respect for the steel that had taken its hand.

  Blood trickled down Conan’s chest from four deep gashes, but that was not what concerned him at the moment, nor even the fangs that hungered for his flesh. Fumbling at his belt with his free hand, he swallowed hard. The pouch was gone, torn away by those dagger claws, and with it the powder he needed to cross the barrier. With the thought his eyes drifted toward the marking columns … and there, at the base of a roughhewn monolith, lay the pouch and his hope of escape.

  Slowly, keeping the point of his sword directed at the glowing beast, Conan began to edge sideways towards the crude pillar. The creature hesitated, and a twisted intelligence shone in its eye as it, too, saw the pouch. As if divining the importance of what lay within, the slime-covered giant darted to stand over the small leather sack, almost touching the deadly barrier. Its fanged mouth twisted in what seemed almost a mocking smile.

  Thus for the beast fearing the barrier, Conan thought. An it could reason so, it would not leave the pouch for him to find, even did he manage to lead it away. It seemed that Erlik was enfolding his Cloak of Unending Night about him
, yet a man was not meant to accept his own death meekly.

  “Crom!” Conan roared, and attacked. “Crom and steel!”

  Fangs bared in a snarl the creature dashed to meet him, but Conan did not mean to come to grips with the foul beast. At the last instant he dropped into a crouch, still moving, blade slashing across a belly of deathly argentine flesh covered with glowing slime, and ducked beneath slicing claws that struck only his cloak. For an instant Conan was snubbed short, then cloth ripped, and he was beyond the beast with the tatters of the garment dangling down his back.

  Barely slowing, Conan bent to snatch his pouch from the ground, pivoted on one foot, and raced down the line of barrier stones. Stones grated close behind, and the Cimmerian whirled, broadsword striking at a clawed hand descending toward his head. Three cruel-tipped fingers fell, severed, but the mutilated hand slammed into Conan, driving him dazed to his knees.

  Then he was enveloped in adamantine arms, being drawn toward the great flesh-rending teeth. Only Conan’s sword arm was free of the unyielding grip, and with it he thrust his blade into that fanged mouth, the point knifing through flesh, grating on bone, bursting through the back of the beast’s great head.

  The creature snarled and snapped at the blade, trying with unabated fury to reach the Cimmerian, the stench of its breath flowing into Conan’s nostrils. Like the iron bands of a torture device those huge arms tightened, till Conan thought his spine would snap. No longer could he feel his legs, or his trapped hand. He did not even know if he still held the pouch that contained his sole hope of leaving the Blasted Lands. All he could do was fight with his last measure of strength to keep that ravenous mouth from his throat.

  Suddenly there was a greater worry than the beast in Conan’s mind. Over the creature’s shoulder he could see the marking pillars; its struggles were carrying them closer to that deadly shield. And closer. At least he would die with sword in hand, and not alone. Uncertainty flickered in the beast’s blood-red eye as grim laughter burst from Conan’s mouth. Contact with the barrier.