Conan The Valiant

by Roland Green

  "They wouldn't dare!" If her eyes had been bows, half the crowd would have dropped dead with arrows in them.

  "Caraya, men in fear will dare anything, if it lets them strike back at that fear." It was one of Ivram's pieces of wisdom. Now seemed a good time to bring it forth.

  Another charitable soul brought a bucket of hot water and a sponge. Bora sponged himself into a semblance of cleanliness, then pulled on his clothes. The crowd still surrounded him, many gaping as if he were a god come to earth.

  Anger sharpened his voice.

  "Is there no work that needs doing? If nothing else, we must bring water from Winterhome if our wells cannot give enough. Doubtless they will share if we ask. Not if we stand about gaping until the birds build nests in our mouths!"

  Bora half-feared that he had finally said too much. Who was he, at sixteen, to order men old enough to be his grandfather?

  Instead he saw nods, and heard men offering to walk to the other village with a message. He refused to decide who should go. He took one of the towels, dipped it into the stream, then wrung it out and tied it around his left arm.

  "I will take this to Ivram," he shouted, raising the arm. "The demons were too weak to harm me, so there is little to fear. There may be much to learn, and Ivram will know how to learn it."

  Bora hoped that was true. The priest was said to know many odd bits of arcane lore, without being truly a sorcerer. Even so, Ivram might not be able to answer the most urgent question.

  How close were the demons? To send men out to seek them would be murder. To wait and let them come at a time of their own choosing would be folly. What else could be done? Bora did not know, but Ivram could at least help him hide this ignorance.

  Also, Ivram and Maryam were the two people in the whole village to whom Bora could admit that he was frightened.

  By mid-afternoon Conan judged it safe to leave the hills and press on to the next town. He would have felt safer pressing all the way to the garrison at Fort Zheman, but that would have meant riding by night.

  Also, Dessa and Massouf were near the end of their strength.

  "They might go farther if they hadn't spent so much time quarreling," Conan told Raihna. "I won't turn that young lady over my knee, but I'll pray Massouf does and soon. For all our sakes, not just his!"

  "I much doubt he'll find it in himself to do that," Raihna said. "He sounds like a man who isn't quite sure now he wanted his dream to come true."

  "If he doesn't know what he wants, then he and Dessa will be well-matched," Conan growled. "I'll even pay for their wedding, if they have no kin left. Anything, just so we don't have to carry those witlings into the mountains!"

  Unmoved by Conan's opinion, the reunited lovers were still quarreling when the party rode into Haruk. They fell silent while Conan found rooms at an inn with stout walls, a back door, and good wine. Then their quarreling began again, when Illyana announced thatlthey would share a room to themselves.

  "I won't!" Dessa said simply.

  "I won't touch you, Dessa," Massouf said. He sounded genuinely contrite. "Don't be afraid."

  "Afraid! Of you? A real man I'd fear, but—"

  Glares from Illyana, Raihna, and Conan silenced her, but not soon enough. An angry flush crept up into Massouf's face and his voice shook as he spoke.

  "I'm not man enough for you? What are you, Dessa? Did you find a trull's heart in—"

  The slap Dessa aimed would have floored Massouf if Conan hadn't stepped between them. He held one hand over Dessa's mouth while he opened the door of her room with the other. Then he shifted his grip, to the collar and hem of her borrowed tunic, swung her back and forth a few times, and tossed her neatly on to the bed.

  "Now, Massouf," Conan said with elaborate courtesy. "Would it be your pleasure to walk into the room? Or would you prefer to imitate a bird?"

  Massouf cursed but walked. Conan kicked the couple's baggage in after them, then pulled the door shut and bolted it from the outside.

  "Here," Illyana said. She held out a cup of wine. Conan emptied it without taking it from his lips.

  "Bless you," he said, wiping his mouth. He stopped short of adding that she knew well what a man might need. Such jests clearly reached some old, deep wound. If he could give her no good memories, he could at least not prod the scabs and scars.

  "I don't know if they'll have a peaceful night," Raihna said. "But I intend to." She put an arm around Conan's waist.

  "If it's peace you want, Raihna, you may have to wait a while for it."

  "Oh, I hope so. A long, long while." Her attempt to imitate a worshipful young girl was so ludicrous that even Illyana burst out laughing.

  "If you're that hot, woman," Conan said, "then let's see what this inn has for dinner. Man or horse, you don't ride them far on an empty stomach!"

  Eleven

  SOMEWHERE NEARBY A woman was screaming. Pleasantly entangled with Raihna, Conan was slow to spare the woman a single thought. Even then, his thought was that Dessa and Massouf had finally come to blows. Dessa, in Conan's opinion, could well take care of herself without help from people who had more important matters at hand—

  The screams grew louder. Raihna stiffened, but not in passion. She stared at the door.

  "Woman—!" the Cimmerian muttered.

  "No. That—it's Illyana. She is in pain or fears danger."

  Raihna flung herself out of bed and dashed to the door. She stopped only to snatch up sword and dagger. Similarly clad, Conan followed.

  In the hall, Dessa and Massouf stood before Illyana's door. Dessa was clad as Conan and Raihna, without the weapons. Massouf had a blanket wrapped around his waist. As Conan reached them, the screaming ceased.

  "Don't just stand there!" Conan snarled.

  "We tried the door," Massouf said. "It is bolted from within, or perhaps spell-bound." His voice was steady, although his eyes ran up and down Raihna.

  Thank the gods the lad isn't so besotted with Dessa that he sees no other woman!

  From behind Illyana's door came the mewling of someone in pain or fear, now fighting to hide it.

  "Give me room!" Conan snapped. "And Massouf— find the innkeeper if he isn't already summoning the watch!"

  Conan drew back as far as the hall would allow. When he plunged forward, he was like an avalanche on a steep slope. The bolt was made to resist common men, not Cimmerians of Conan's size and strength. The bolt snapped like a twig and the door crashed open.

  Conan flew into the room, nearly stumbling over Illyana, who knelt at the foot of the bed. She clutched the bedclothes with both hands and had a corner of the blanket stuffed into her mouth.

  She wore only the Jewel of Khurag in its ring on her left arm. The Jewel seared Conan's eyes with emerald flame.

  "Don't touch her!" Raihna cried.

  "She needs help!"

  "You will hurt, not help, if you touch her now!"

  Conan hesitated, torn between desire to help someone clearly suffering and trust in Raihna's judgment. Illyana settled the question by slumping into a faint. As. she fell senseless, the flame in the Jewel died.

  Raihna knelt beside her mistress, listening for a heartbeat and breath. Conan mounted guard at the door, while Dessa pulled blankets off the bed to improvise garb for everyone.

  "You've your wits about you, girl," Raihna said grudgingly.

  "You think a witling could have lived as I have?"

  "No," Conan said, laughing harshly. If Dessa truly wanted to queen it over a tavern, best send her to Pyla. In Aghrapur, any friend of Pyla had few enemies. If that friend was a woman, she was off to a fine start in the taverns.

  At this moment Massouf returned. The innkeeper and two stout-thewed manservants either followed or pursued him. Conan showed them steel and they halted, while Massouf darted into the room.

  "What is this din?" the innkeeper bellowed. He contemplated everyone's improvised garments and Illyana's lack of any. "I'll have you know I keep a quiet house. If it's a woman you want—"


  "Oh, go play with your women!" growled Conan. "If you're man enough, that is. My lady mistress has been having a nightmare. She's a widow, and her husband met a hard death."

  The landlord seemed mollified. He was turning, when Illyana began to mutter, "The Transformed. No hope—stopping them—this far away. Try to—weaken —power over them. Try—everyone (something wordless) doomed—"

  "Witchcraft!" one of the servants screamed. He clattered off down the stairs. His comrade followed. Raihna ran to her mistress's side, dropping her blanket in her haste. The innkeeper remained, his mouth agape, whether at Raihna or the witchcraft Conan didn't know.

  "The watch!" the man finally gasped. "I'll call the watch. If they won't come, I'll raise the town. There'll be no witcheries done in my house. No, not by all the gods—"

  "Go raise the town and much good may it do you!" Raihna shouted. Her sword nearly slit the innkeeper's nose. He backed away, reached the top of the stairs, and would have fallen backward down them if Conan hadn't gripped his arm.

  "Look you, my witless friend," the Cimmerian said. He would have gladly flung the man after his servants, but a small chance of peace remained. "My mistress does have some magic at her command. That's true. She can also sense others casting spells. The one she's sensed is old and evil. Leave her be, and perhaps she can protect you!"

  The man frowned, but some of the panic left his face. When Conan released him, he walked down the stairs, instead of running.

  "I may have won us time," Conan said. "Then again, I may not. Those fools of servants will have the town here before you can spell a pot of soup to boiling!"

  "I must do what I can," Illyana said, shaking her head. "Horror is on the march, and I must do what I can to fight it."

  "If it's not close—" Conan began.

  "That matters not," Illyana said, drawing herself up with a queen's dignity. "When I fled from Eremius, I swore to fight Eremius whenever I had the slightest hope of doing so. Now I have more than a hope, if you will give me time, you and Raihna."

  She clearly had her mind made up, and Raihna would stay, fight, and if needs be die whether Conan stayed or not. The matter was settled.

  "As you wish," Conan said. "Get on with it, while Raihna and I pack what can't be left behind. Dessa, you and Massouf need not come with us. I much doubt they'll blame you—"

  "Before this, perhaps not," Dessa said. "But as you said last night—now it's too late. I'll be accused whether I deserve it or not." She grinned wickedly, then stuck out her tongue at Conan.

  The soft night wind carried the carrion reek, the growls, the shuffling feet of the Transformed to Eremius. Ears sharpened by magic judged that they were close to the village's sentries.

  Those sentries had not long to live. Doubtless they would not die silently, but that would hardly matter. In fact, their dying would begin the sowing of fear in the village. Enough of that, and Eremius would hardly need to—

  A horse's scream sundered the night. The Transformed howled in triumph. Raw with fear came a human cry.

  "Demons! Demons! The demons are upon us! Fly, fly—yaaaagggh!" as claws and teeth tore the man's life from him.

  Eremius allowed himself a frown of displeasure. Had the village contrived to mount their sentries? Or had the Transformed stumbled upon a man riding out on some entirely different matter? Yet once more, Eremius would have sworn to guard Illyana's maidenhood, to have the services of a good war captain at his command!

  At least he needed no captain's advice to know that the village had been warned too soon. The villagers would have more time to flee. The Transformed could pursue them only so far before they escaped from Eremius's command.

  A village hurled into panic-stricken flight would send a powerful message to would-be allies. A village reduced to rubble and corpses would send one still more powerful.

  Eremius raised his staff. For tonight, the Jewel flamed from its head, bound there by a silver ring and carefully-hoarded strands of Illyana's hair. Eremius had proven several times over that the Jewel was not bonded to the ring. He had long known the spells for removing it from the ring and returning it, but tonight was the first time he had removed it for serious work.

  Eremius began to chant, calling on every craftsman of ancient Atlantis whose name was known. It was a long list. He then passed on to all the Atlantean gods and demons, a list nearly as long.

  One day he would receive a clear sign of who had made or found the Jewels, and what had aided him. Perhaps it would even happen before the other Jewel came into Eremius's hands. For now the sorcerer knew only that this invocation wearied him exceedingly and could make the spell uncertain—or vastly more powerful.

  "Chyar, Esporn, Boker—"

  Over and over again, more than two-score names of power. As he chanted, Eremius thrust the staff and Jewel alternately to the left and to the right. On either side of him a space in the air began to glow with emerald fire.

  The Spell of the Eyes of Mahr could enthrall a dozen men even at its common power. Enhanced, it would hold the village as motionless as the stones of their huts while the Transformed descended upon them.

  "Boker, Idas, Gezass, Ayrgulf—"

  Ayrgulf was no Atlantean, but he had a place in the history of the Jewels. History, not legend, named him the first Vanir chief who had possessed the Jewels. More history and much bloody legend told of what befell him, when the Jewels filled him with dreams of power he had no art to command.

  History and legend alike would speak otherwise of Eremius the Jewelmaster.

  To left and right, the glowing green spheres began to flatten into the oval shapes of immense eyes.

  Bora saw the eyes take form as he ran from Ivram's house. As he reached the head of the path downhill, the eyes seemed to stare directly at him.

  His legs seemed to have a will of their own, and that will was to turn and flee. It would be so easy—much easier than descending the path to the doomed village and dying when the demon behind the eyes swooped.

  But—what would men say of him? What would he think of himself, for that matter?

  Bora had never known before so much of the truth about courage. Little of it was-freedom from fear. Some of it was mastering your fear. A great part was fearing other men's tongues more than whatever menaced you, and the rest was wishing to sleep soundly at night the rest of your days.

  Not that he would have many more days or nights if he went down that hill.

  Bora descended the four steps Ivram had carved into the rock at the top of the path. As his feet struck bare ground, he realized that the eyes seemed to be following him. Moreover, they were drawing him on down the hill.

  He had not fled because he was being ensorceled not to flee! Like a snake charming a bird, the eyes were drawing him, a helpless prey, toward what awaited at the bottom of the hill.

  Feet thumped on the stairs behind him. A pungent powder floated about him. ft stung nose and mouth like pepper. Bora's face twisted, he clapped hands over his face, his eyes streamed tears, and he sneezed convulsively.

  "Go on sneezing, Bora," came Ivram's voice. "If you need more—"

  Bora could not speak, half-strangled as he felt. He went on sneezing until he feared that his nose might leap from his face and roll down the hill. His eyes streamed as they had not since he wept for his grandfather's death.

  At last he could command his breath again. He also discovered that he could command his feet, his senses, his will—

  "What spell did you put on me, Ivram?" he shouted. The shout set off another fit of coughing.

  "Only the counterspell in the Powder of Zayan," Ivram said mildly. "The Spell of the Eyes of Hahr is one of those easily cast on an unsuspecting, unresisting subject. It is just as easily broken by the Powder. Once broken, it cannot be recast on the same subject—"

  "I'm grateful, Ivram," Bora said. "More than grateful." In his worst nightmares, he had not imagined that what menaced the village would wield such powers. "But can we help the whole villa
ge in time?" He was fidgeting to be off down the hill, half-afraid that the urge to flee would rise again if he waited.

  "There is ample Powder. I have been making it since you told me of the demons."

  "Then give it to me!"

  "Patience, young Bora—"

  "Oh, the demons devour patience and you too!

  Crimson Springs is dying, priest! Can't your Mitra tell you that much, you—!"

  "Bora, never abandon patience. I was about to say, that many in the village may well have been sleeping or had their eyes averted when the Eyes appeared. The spell will not bind them.

  "Also, I am going down to the village with you. Two of us casting the Powder—"

  "Ivram!" Maryam squalled like a scalded cat. "You're too old to die fighting demons—!"

  "Life or death are in Mitra's hands, sweetling. No one is ever too old to pay a debt. Crimson Springs has sheltered us for many years. We owe them something."

  "But—your life?"

  "Even that."

  Bora heard Maryam swallowing. "I should have known better than to argue with you. Am I losing my power to understand men?"

  "Not at all, and Mitra willing, you'll have many years to practice it on me. For now, I'd rather you loaded up the mules. Take the shrine, but don't forget clean clothing in your haste."

  Now Bora heard a faint sigh. "Ivram, I've fled in more haste, and from places I was happier to leave. I've had a traveling pack ready since Bora warned us."

  "Mitra bless you, Maryam, and keep you safe."

  After that Bora heard only an eloquent silence. He hastened down the hill, having already heard too much of the farewell for his peace of mind.

  Ivram caught up with him halfway down the hill. For the first time Bora saw the man clearly. He carried his staff of office in his right hand and a straight-bladed short sword on his belt. Over his shoulder hung a bag of richly-worked leather, with images of Mitra sewn in semi-precious stones.

  "There's enough Powder in this sack to unbind the whole village, if we just have time," Ivram said. "We may. If whoever is casting this spell thinks he has all the time in the world—"