Conan the Unconquered

by Robert Jordan

  Now those hell-born backed warily from Conan and Sharak, rolling fearsome red eyes at Jhandar. For that moment at least, the way to the altar was clear, and Conan dashed for the black stone.

  For but a heartbeat Jhandar faced that charge, then howled, “There are Powers you have not seen in your nightmares! Now face them!” and darted across the floor and down a small arched passage. With his departure the creatures, yet whole, seemingly freed of his command, vanished also.

  Indecision racked Conan. For all he had sworn the necromancer would be dealt with first, Yasbet lay chained before him, with Davinia … .

  As his gaze fell on her, the lithesome blonde backed away, wetting her lips nervously. “I heard you had sailed away, Conan,” she said, then quickly abandoned that line as his face did not soften. “I was forced, Conan. Jhandar is a sorcerer, and forced me to this.” She held the dagger low in the thumb-and-forefinger grip of one who knew how to gut a man, but she did not move toward Conan.

  One eye on Davinia, Conan stepped up to the altar. Yasbet writhed in her chains. Four times his blade rang against her bonds, and steel conquered iron.

  Ripping the gag from her mouth, Yasbet scrambled from the altar and plucked the dead Cult member’s sword from the floor. Her hair lay wildly on her shoulders and breasts; she looked a naked goddess of battles. “I will deal with this … .” Words failed her as she glared at Davinia.

  “Fool wench,” Conan snapped. “I did not free you to see you stabbed!”

  “’Tis a Cimmerian fool I see,” Sharak called. He still leaped about like a puppeteer’s stick figure, disposing with his staff of the portions of creatures that littered the chamber floor. “The necromancer must be slain, or all this is for naught!”

  The old man spoke true, Conan knew. With a last look at Yasbet, closing grimly in on a snarling Davinia, he turned into the small passage Jhandar had taken.

  It was not long, that narrow corridor. Almost immediately he saw a glow ahead, the same silver blue that had shone about the altar, yet a thousand times brighter. Quickening his pace, he burst into a small, unadorned chamber. In its center, surrounded by plain columns, a huge bubble of roiling mist burned and pulsed. Barely, through the brightness, Conan could make out Jhandar beyond the pool, arms outspread, his voice echoing like a bronze bell in words beyond understanding. Yet it was the brilliantly shining mass that held his eye, and hammered at him as it did. From those pulsating mists radiated, neither good nor evil, but the antithesis of being, beating at his mind, threatening to shatter all that was in him into a thousand fragments.

  Pale images, washed out by the blinding glow, moved at the edge of his vision, then resolved themselves into two of the leather-skinned beings from the grave, sidling toward him along the wall as if they feared that shining. He knew that he must deal with the creatures and reach Jhandar, reach him quickly, before he completed whatever sorceries he was embarked upon, yet within the Cimmerian there was struggle. Never had he given in while he had strength or means to resist, but a thought strange to him now crept into his mind. Surrender. The mist was overpowering. Then, as if the words were a spark, rage flared in him. As a boy in the icy mountains of Cimmeria he had seen men, caught in an avalanche, hacking at towering waves of snow and dirt as they were swept away, refusing to accept the thing that killed them. He would not surrender. He—would—not—surrender !

  A wordless scream of primal rage burst from Conan’s throat. He spun, swinging his sword like an axe. Head and trunk of the foremost creature toppled, sliced cleanly from its hips and legs. Jhandar, rang in the Cimmerian’s brain, and he was moving even as his steel broke free of that unnatural flesh.

  But such a creature could not be slain like a mortal. The upper portion twisted as it fell, seized Conan about the legs, and together they crashed to the stone floor. Jagged teeth slashed Conan’s thigh, yet in the beserker rage that gripped him he was as much beast as that he fought. His fisted hilt smashed into the creature’s skull, again and again, till he pounded naught but slimy pulp. Yet those mindless arms gripped him still.

  And Jhandar’s chant continued unabated, as if he were too enmeshed in the Power to even be aware of another’s presence.

  Claws clattering on marble warned the Cimmerian that the second creature drew near. Wildly, half-blinded by the ever-brightening glow, Conan struck out. His blade caught but an ankle, yet the thing stumbled, flailed for balance … and fell shrieking against the shining dome. Lightnings arcked and crackled, and the creature was gone.

  The way to Jhandar was open. Grim determination limning his icy eyes, Conan crawled. Animal fury burned in his brain. Now the sorcerer would die, if he had to rip out his throat with bared teeth. Yet in a small, sane corner of his mind there was despair. Jhandar’s ringing incantation was rising to a crescendo. The necromancer’s foul work would be done before Conan reached him. Powers of darkness would be loosed on the land.

  Something about the way the last beast had disappeared tugged at him. It reminded him of … what? The barrier to the Blasted Lands. Feverishly he dug into his pouch—it had to be there!—and drew out the small leather bag of powder Samarra had given him. Almost did he laugh. If nightmares were loosed to walk, still this time Jhandar would not escape. Undoing the rawhide strings that held the bag closed, he carefully tossed it ahead of him, toward the oblivious, chanting sorcerer. On the very edge of the burning dome the bag fell, open, contents spilling broadly. It had to be enough.

  “Your vengeance, Samarra,” Conan murmured, and slowly, coldly, spoke the words the shamaness had taught him. As the last syllable was pronounced, a shimmer sprang into being above the powder.

  Jhandar’s words of incantation faltered. For a brief moment he stared at the shimmer. Then he screamed. “No! Not yet! Not till I am gone!”

  Through that shimmer, that weakened area of the wards that held the Pool of the Ultimate, flowed something. The mind could not encompass it, the eye refused to see it. Silver flecks danced in air that was too azure. No more did it seem, yet an ever-deepening channel was etched into the marble floor as it came from the pool. It touched pillars about the circumference of the pool; abruptly half pillars dangled in the air. The ceiling creaked. It washed against a wall, and stones ceased to exist. The wall and part of the ceiling above collapsed. The rubble fell into that inexorable tide of nonexistence, and was not.

  Some measure of sanity returned to Conan in the face of that horror. Part of it moved toward him, now. Desperately he sliced with his broadsword at the undying arms that gripped his legs.

  Jhandar turned to run, but as he ran the fringes of that flowing thing touched him. Only the fringes, the outer mists, yet full-throated he screamed, like a woman put to torture or a soul damned. Saffron robes melted like dew, and on his legs flesh disappeared at every touch of that mist. Bone gleamed whitely, and he fell shrieking to match the cries of all the victims he had ever laid on his black altar.

  With a groan the far end of the chamber collapsed into vapor, though with less sound than Jhandar’s screams. Conan redoubled his efforts, hacking at the tough flesh. The last sinew was severed; the unnatural grip was gone.

  As the Cimmerian rolled to his feet and dove for the entrance passage, the invisible silver-flecked tide washed over the spot where he had been. Ignoring his gashed thigh, Conan ran, the sounds of Jhandar shrieking to the gods for mercy echoing in his ears.

  When the Cimmerian reached the altar chamber, Sharak was peering down the passage. From a safe distance. “What was that screaming?” the astrologer asked, then added thoughtfully, “It’s stopped.”

  “Jhandar’s dead,” Conan said, looking for Yasbet. He found her slicing the dead cult member’s robes into some sort of garment, using the very dagger Davinia had intended for her heart. The blonde knelt fearfully nearby, bruised but unbloodied, gagged with the remnants of her own golden silks. A strip of the same material bound her hands; another circled her neck as a leash, with the end firmly in Yasbet’s grasp.

 
Suddenly the earth moved. The floor heaved, twisted, and sagged toward the chamber from which Conan had fled.

  “It’s eating its way into the bowels of the earth,” he muttered.

  Sharak eyed him quizzically. “It? What? Nothing could—”

  Again the ground danced, but this time it did not stop. Lamps crashed from the ceiling, splattering patches of burning oil. Dust rose, beaten into the air by the quivering of the floor, a floor that was tilting more with every heartbeat.

  “No time,” Conan shouted, grabbing Yasbet’s hand. “Run!” And he suited his actions to his words, drawing Yasbet behind him, and perforce Davinia, for the dark-eyed woman would not loosen her grip on the blonde’s leash. With surprising swiftness Sharak followed.

  Down crumbling halls they ran, past flame-filled rooms, priceless rugs and rare tapestries the fuel. Dust filled the air, and shards of stone from collapsing ceilings.

  Then they were outside, into the night, but there was no safety. The rumblings of the ground filled the air as if Erlik himself walked the face of the earth, making it tremble beneath his footsteps. Great trees toppled like weeds, and tall spires fell thunderously in ruin.

  Here there were people, hundreds of them, fleeing in all directions, fur-capped Hyrkanians mixed with saffron-robed cult members. But safety did not always come with flight. Ahead of him, Conan saw a rift open in the earth beneath the very feet of four running men, three with shaven heads, one in a bulky sheepskin coat. When the Cimmerian reached the spot the ground had closed again, sealing all four in a common tomb.

  Other fissures were opening as well, great crevasses that did not close. A tower tilted slowly, shaking with the earth, and slid whole into a great chasm that widened and lengthened even as Conan looked.

  At the wall there was no need to climb. Great lengths of it had fallen into rubble. Over those piled stones they scrambled. Conan would not let them slow. Memories of the Blasted Lands drove him on, away from the compound, into the forest surrounding, further and further, till even his great muscles quivered with effort and he half-carried and half-dragged Yasbet and Davinia.

  With shocking abruptness the land was still. Dead silence hung in the air. A new sound began, a hissing roar, building.

  Hanging onto a tree, Sharak looked a question at Conan.

  “The sea,” Conan panted. The women stirred tiredly in his encircling grasp. “The fissures have reached the sea.”

  Behind them the sable sky turned crimson. With a roar, fiery magma erupted, scarlet fountains mixed with roaring geysers of steam as the sea sought the bowels of the earth. The air stirred, became a zephyr, a gale, a whirlwind rushing in to battle with the ultimate void.

  Conan tried to hold the women against the force of that wind, but the strength of it grew seemingly without end. One moment he was standing, the next he was down, his hold on the women gone, clutching the ground lest he be sucked back toward the holocaust. Dirt, leaves, branches, even stones, filled the air in a hail.

  “Hold on!” he tried to shout to them, but the fury of the wind drove the words back in his teeth.

  Then the earth began to heave again. The Cimmerian had only an instant to see a broken branch flying toward him, and then his head seemed to explode into blackness.

  Epilogue

  Conan woke to daylight. The flat coastal forest had become rolling hills, covered with a tangle of uprooted trees. Yasbet. Scrambling to his feet, he began to pick his way among trees tossed like jackstraws, calling her name without reply. Then, as he topped a hill, he fell silent in amazement.

  The hills were not the only change that had been wrought upon the land. A bay now cut into the land, its surface covered thickly with dead fish. Wisps of steam rolled up from that water, and he was ready to wager that despite all of the sea to cool it the waters in that bay would remain hot for all time.

  “The compound stood there,” a hoarse voice said, and Sharak limped up to stand beside him. Somehow, he saw, the astrologer had kept his staff through all that had occurred. Now he leaned on it tiredly, his robes torn and his face muddy.

  “I do not think fishermen will often cast their nets in those waters,” Conan replied. Sharak made a sign against evil. “Have you seen Yasbet?”

  The astrologer shook his head. “I have seen many, mainly cult members leaving this place as fast as they can. I have seen Tamur and half a dozen of the Hyrkanians, wanting only to be gone from Turan, yet unsure of their welcome at home. I wager we’ll find them in a tavern in Aghrapur. I saw Akman, hurrying west.” His voice saddened. “Yasbet, I fear, did not survive.”

  “I did, too, you old fool,” the girl’s voice called.

  A broad smile appeared on Conan’s face as he watched her clamber up the hill, still leading Davinia on her leash, and Akeba following close behind. All three were streaked with mud, a condition the Cimmerian realized for the first time that he shared.

  “I lost my sword,” she announced when she reached them. A narrow length of saffron was her only garment, affording her little more covering than the tavern girls of Aghrapur, but if anything her costume seemed to add to her jauntiness. “But I’ll get another one. You owe me more lessons, Conan.” Her smile became mischievious. “In the sword, and other things.”

  Akeba coughed to hide a grin; Sharak openly leered.

  “You’ll get your lessons,” Conan said. “But why are you still pulling Davinia about? Set her free, or kill her, if that’s your wish. You have the right, for she would have killed you.”

  The blonde’s knees buckled. She crouched weeping at Yasbet’s feet, her beauty hidden by layers of filth.

  “I’ll do neither,” Yasbet said, after studying the cringing woman. “I’ll sell her to a brothel. ’is all she’s fit for, and a fitting place for her.” Davinia moaned into her gag; the horror in her eyes indicated she might rather be slain. “And thus,” Yasbet added, “will I get the wherewithal for my sword.”

  “I am as glad as any to see the rest of you,” Akeba said, “but I would as soon be gone from this place.”

  “Yes,” Sharak said excitedly. “I must return to Aghrapur. With the powers of my staff proven, I can double, no, triple my fees. You will attest to it, will you not, Akeba?”

  “Attest to what?” the soldier demanded. “Are you making claims about that stick again?”

  Offering a helping hand to Yasbet, Conan started down the hill, away from the bay, toward Aghrapur. “Jhandar called you by another name than Yasbet,” he said as she scrambled after him. “What was it?”

  “You must have misheard,” she told him blandly. “Yasbet is all the name I have.” Davinia pressed forward, making urgent sounds at Conan through her gag. Yasbet glared over her shoulder. “Do you want a sound switching before you’re sold?” Eyes wide with shock, the blonde fell silent, and thereafter would not even meet the Cimmerian’s gaze.

  Conan nodded to himself. Clearly Yasbet was lying, but some said that was a woman’s right. He would not press her on it.

  Snatches of conversation drifted foward from the two men behind.

  “If Conan saw it, let him attest to it. I saw nothing.”

  “But you are a sergeant, an official as it were. Can you not see how much better your word would be? I’m certain Conan will tell you what he saw.”

  The smile Conan had worn since seeing Yasbet alive widened even further. For all the days before, there was much to be said for this day. He was alive, with a little gold—he checked his pouch to see if the two coins still rested there; they did—good friends, and a pretty woman. What more could any man ask for? What more?

  Tor Books by Robert Jordan

  Note: Within series, books are best read in listed order.

  —–

  THE WHEEL OF TIME®

  The preeminent fantasy epic of our era, created by Robert Jordan and completed by Brandon Sanderson.

  The Eye of the World

  The Great Hunt

  The Dragon Reborn

  The Shadow Risingr />
  The Fires of Heaven

  Lord of Chaos

  A Crown of Swords

  The Path of Daggers

  Winter’s Heart

  Crossroads of Twilight

  Knife of Dreams

  The Gathering Storm (with Brandon Sanderson)

  Towers of Midnight (with Brandon Sanderson)

  A Memory of Light (with Brandon Sanderson)

  New Spring: The Novel (a prequel)

  Young adult editions of the first two books in the Wheel of Time:

  From the Two Rivers (Starscape; Part one of The Eye of the World)

  To the Blight (Starscape; Part two of The Eye of the World)

  The Hunt Begins (Starscape; Part one of The Great Hunt)

  New Threads in the Pattern (Starscape; Part two of The Great Hunt)

  Companion books to The Wheel of Time containing in-depth descriptions of the characters and the world:

  The World of Robert Jordan’s The Wheel of Time (with Teresa Patterson)

  The Wheel of Time Companion (with Harriet McDougal, Alan Romanczuk, and Maria Simons)

  Graphic novel adaptions of The Eye of the World and New Spring: The Novel:

  The Eye of the World: The Graphic Novel, Volume One

  The Eye of the World: The Graphic Novel, Volume Two

  The Eye of the World: The Graphic Novel, Volume Three

  The Eye of the World: The Graphic Novel, Volume Four

  The Eye of the World: The Graphic Novel, Volume Five

  The Eye of the World: The Graphic Novel, Volume Six

  New Spring: The Graphic Novel

  CONAN

  Tales of the legendary barbarian created by Robert E. Howard

  Conan the Invincible

  Conan the Defender

  Conan the Unconquered

  Conan the Triumphant

  Conan the Magnificent

  Conan the Destroyer

  Conan the Victorious

  The Conan Chronicles

  The Further Chronicles of Conan