by Roland Green
Sleep would not come, though, until he swore a solemn oath. If Captain Shamir's folly slew the men he led, and the gods spared the man, Bora would not.
Unless, of course, the Cimmerian reached Shamil first.
Seventeen
CONAN HAD SLEPT little and lightly. Now he inspected the sentries under a star-specked sky. Somewhat to his surprise and much to his pleasure, he found them alert. Perhaps Khezal's discipline counted for more than the laxness of Captain Shamil. Or did the ghosts of comrades dead in vanished outposts whisper caution?
Toward the end of his inspection, Conan met Khezal on the same errand. The young officer laughed, but uneasily; Illyana's warning was in both their minds. Even without it, Conan had the sense of invisible eyes watching him from deep within the surrounding hills.
"Let us stay together, Captain," Khezal said. "If you inspect the men with me, none will doubt your authority. Except Shamil. He would doubt the difference between men and women!"
"I'll wager your friend Dessa taught him better!"
"She's hardly a friend of mine."
"I've never seen a woman look at an enemy the way she looks at—"
"Captains!" came a whisper from beyond the camp-fire. "We've seen something moving on the crest of that hill." Conan saw a soldier, pointing with his drawn sword into the night.
Conan stepped away from the fire and stared into the darkness until his eyes pierced it. The sky held no moon, but as many stars as he had ever seen. On the crest of a hill to the south of the camp, something was indeed obscuring the stars. More than one, indeed, and all of them moving.
The Cimmerian drew his sword. Khezal sought to stop him. "Conan, we may need you—"
"You do indeed need me, to scout that hill. There's no demon yet conjured who can outfight a Cimmerian. Or outrun him, if it comes to that."
He left no more time for argument, but stalked away into the darkness.
Eremius sat cross-legged atop a boulder on the far side of the valley from his Transformed. With the Spell of Unveiling, he could see them crouching, ready to swoop upon the soldiers like hawks upon quail. He also saw one man already climbing the hill toward the Transformed, as if eager to embrace his doom.
Eremius would do nothing to deny the man his last pleasure.
Looking toward the head of the valley, he sought a glimpse of the human fighters sent there. He saw nothing. Had the men lost their way, gone too far, or merely found places to hide in until they saw the Transformed attacking? It would do little harm if the humans stumbled on the villagers—at least little harm to Eremius's cause. What it would do to the villagers was another matter.
It would still be better if the men could take the soldiers in the rear, as Eremius planned. With the Transformed on one side and the humans in their rear, the soldiers would feel themselves mightily beset.
With Eremius's spells on the other side, they might well feel themselves surrounded. Oh, they would have one road open, one that led into a waterless wilderness of hills. They would learn this only too late, and at the same time they would also learn that the Transformed were on their trail.
Eremius contemplated the coming hours with a pleasure almost as great as he could have gained from contemplating a suppliant Illyana. If his plan gained the victory it deserved, perhaps he would have no need of a captain for his wars. A few underlings, to spare him the tedious work of training the men, but none to command in battle. He would be equal to that task himself!
Eremius scrambled down from the boulder and stepped behind it, then drew the Jewel from its pouch. It would be best if he began the necessary spells now. They gave off a trifle of light, though, and for a little while longer the soldiers would not have a horde of demons to draw their attention.
The staff resting against the boulder quivered, straightened, then floated into its master's hand. Three passes of the silvered head over the Jewel, and Eremius stood in a circle of emerald light as wide as he was tall.
He thrust the staff into the ground and began to chant softly.
Conan mounted the slope standing upright. Haste was needed. Also, it was for once desirable that he be seen by the enemy, perhaps to draw them into attacking too soon. He trusted Bora's judgment that the demons did not know archery.
Halfway up the hill, Conan scrambled to the top of a large flat boulder that let him see in all directions. The crest of the hill now seemed empty of movement. He would not have sworn that all the rocks on that crest had been there at sunset, but none moved.
Lighted torches did move in the camp. Conan saw two men joining the nearest sentry post, then two more. Had Khezal awakened his captain over this reinforcing of the sentry posts, or was he leaving the man to dreams of Dessa?
The hills on the north side of the valley were lower than those on Conan's. The Cimmerian could look down upon the crests of several. On one, he saw a faint glow, more like a dying campfire than anything else. He watched it, waiting for it to fade.
Instead it grew brighter. Nor had Conan ever seen coals glowing with the emerald hue of the Jewels of Kurag.
Conan realized he had made a mistake, climbing the hill alone. With a companion, he could have sent a silent warning to the camp, that the magic of the Jewels was about to be unleashed. Alone, he could only alert both sides at once.
"Camp ho! Magic at work on the crest of the white hill! This is Conan the Cimmerian!" He turned toward the crest of his own hill. "You heard me, you spawn of magic and camel dung! Come down and let's see if you have the courage to fight a man who's ready for you!"
Torches danced in the camp as men began to run. A hum of voices rose, like bees from a disturbed hive. Before Conan heard any reply, he saw the crest of his hill sprout dark shapes. For the space of a single deep breath they remained motionless.
Then they spread their arms, howled like lost souls, and plunged downhill toward Conan. A carrion reek rode the night breeze before them.
Nature had given the Cimmerian the art of being able to move backward nearly as fast as he could move forward. Since he had learned that retreating was not always the act of a coward, it had saved his life several times.
Tonight it did so again. Before the onrush of the demons was well begun, Conan had reached the boulder. He leaped over it and landed on the downhill side. The two foremost demons ran past the boulder, one on either side. Conan slashed at one's legs, with a strength that would have amputated any human leg.
The demon howled, stumbled, clutched at a gaping wound, but did not fall. Instead it came at Conan from the front. In the same moment the Cimmerian sensed the other demon coming at him from behind.
He leaped clear, felt his feet slip on loose stone, and turned the fall into a roll. He came up in the perfect position for two quick slashes. One took the second demon in the groin, the other disabled the first one's other leg. Once again Conan would have expected one or both to go down, but drew only howls of agony.
The demon struck in the groin clapped one taloned hand to its wound. The other lashed out at Conan as he closed, with terrible speed and strength. Conan twisted so that the talons only cut the air. His twisting lent extra force to his riposte. The demon's arm should have flown from its shoulder; instead it only sagged limp and torn.
Seeing that arm from close at hand, Conan ceased to be surprised at the slight damage he was doing. The arm was armored thickly in overlapping scales. His sword had hewn flesh, but barely touched bone or sinew. As for blood, only now was it flowing into the wound.
Fear swept through the Cimmerian like a gust of winter wind. It was not fear of the demon itself. Hideously transformed though its flesh might be, no flesh could stand up against a well-wielded sword. Archery, too, should have its effect, if the archers' hands were steady and their eyes clear.
Conan feared the magic that had conjured these creatures into being. It stank of ancient evil, for all that Illyana also used it. Must use it tonight, if the soldiers and villagers were not to die screaming under talons and teeth.
He gave the fallen demon one last look, and his stomach writhed as he saw the shape of its groin and chest. Whatever this demon was now, it had been born into the world a woman.
Conan disliked torturing enemies as much as he disliked killing women. As he passed his sword over the fallen she-demon, he knew it would take an iron will for him to give Eremius an easy death.
From downhill, the howls of the demons now mingled with the voices of soldiers, shouting the alarm, crying out in fear, or screaming as teeth and talons rent their flesh. Conan looked to either side, then plunged downhill like a boulder unleashed in a land-slide.
Bora had heard any number of soldiers' tales and survived the demons' attack on Crimson Springs. He had still never imagined that a battle was so loud.
The war cries and death cries of both men and demons, the clash of weapons, the hiss of arrows from those few archers who had unlimbered their bows and found targets—all smote his ears savagely and endlessly. He forced both the sounds and the sights of the battle out of his awareness, turning all his attention to rallying the men of Crimson Springs.
Only a few needed rallying. This handful had exhausted their courage in the first battle and were now empty wineskins. They might have fled, had they not encountered Iskop the Smith.
"You puling jackal-spawn!" he roared. "Choose now! The demons or me!" He flourished a hammer in either hand.
One man tried to brush past Iskop. He misjudged the length of the smith's arm. A hammer lunged, catching him on the side of the head. He threw up his arms and fell as if pole-axed.
The rest of the would-be fugitives chose the demons as the lesser danger.
"My thanks, Iskop!" Bora shouted.
Then there was no time for speech, as the demons closed all along the lines of the villagers. Arrows thrummed, axes and swords rose and fell, spears leaped and thrust. A handful of the demons fell. More had flesh torn and pierced, but came on. Far too many bore no wound at all when they reached the line of the villagers.
The men of Crimson Springs still held their ground.
Some died, but few as easy victims, and more of the demons suffered. When three or four men faced one demon, they might all take wounds. Sooner or later one would slash or thrust hard enough to pierce even the scaly armor.
Bora ran back and forth behind the line, sling in hand. As clear targets offered themselves, he launched stones. Quickly he exhausted his supply of picked stones and was reduced to scrabbling on the ground for more. Few of these flew truly. He shifted his aim to the demons coming downhill behind the ones fighting the villagers. They were a target that even the most misshapen, ill-balanced stone could scarcely miss.
Once while he sought fresh stones Bora wondered why he did not feel fear clawing at his mind. In the battle at the village, only the Powder of Zayan had lifted the burden of fear. Now he and his people seemed to be fighting the demons with no more fear than if they had been misshapen men.
A quick look behind him told Bora that if he felt no fear, it was not for lack of someone's efforts. On the north side of the valley, a man-high wall of green fire danced along the crests. Sometimes long tongues licked downward, almost reaching the camp.
The flames were dazzling and terrible, but were they doing what their master intended? To Bora, it seemed that they were filling the men around him with an iron will to stand and fight. Better the demons who could be slain than the fire that could not!
Three demons flung themselves in a wedge at the men of Six Trees. The line sagged, bent, came apart. Headman Gelek ran to rally his men. A demon leaped completely over the head of the men in front of Gelek. It landed before him, as he thrust with his spear. A taloned hand snapped the spear like a straw. A second raked across Gelek's face. His scream turned Bora's bowels to water.
Its victim disarmed and blinded, the demon gripped him with both hands. Gelek rose into the air, and there he was pulled apart like a rag doll. Stopping only to gnaw on a piece of dangling flesh, the demon flung the body into the ranks of the villagers.
Gelek's death was beyond enduring, for many of those who witnessed it. They broke and ran screaming, throwing away weapons and boots.
Bora felt his own courage beginning to fray. Desperately he sought to calm himself by seeking another stone and a target for it.
Again Iskop the Smith saved the villagers. "On the left, there! Pull back. Pull back, I say, or the bastards'll be behind you. Oh, Mitra!"
Still cursing, Iskop flung himself into the ranks of the demons. Their armor of scales served well enough against swords and spears, not ill against arrows. Smitten on the head by hammers wielded by a man who could lift a half-grown ox, the demons were as helpless as rabbits.
Iskop smote four of them to the ground before he went down himself. Bora and an archer killed two more out of those tearing at Iskop's body. By then the men of Crimson Springs no longer presented a naked flank to the foe.
The demons still came on. They were fewer, though. At their rear, Bora now saw a towering figure, taller and broader than any demon. A bloody sword danced in his hand, and he roared curses in half a score of tongues and invoked thrice that many gods or what Bora hoped were gods.
"Hold! Hold, people, and we have them! Mitra, Erlik, defend your folk!" Bora cried. He knew he was screaming and did not care. He only cared that the Cimmerian was driving at least some of the demons straight into the arms of the villagers.
The gods willing, it would be the demons' turn to feel doomed and terror-stricken.
Conan knew that he must be making a splendid show in the eyes of the villagers. The mighty warrior, driving the demons before him!
The mighty warrior knew better. Few of those demons had taken serious hurts. Too many remained not only alive but fighting. If enough passed through the lines to reach Illyana, all would know how little the demons had been hurt. Also what magic their master could bring to bear, where his servants failed!
Conan's legs drove him forward. He hurled himself through the demons without stopping to strike a blow. A wild cut here and there was all he allowed himself. Even the preternatural swiftness of the demons did not allow them to strike back.
As Conan passed the ranks of Crimson Springs, he saw Bora unleash his sling. The stone flew like an arrow from a master archer's bow. A demon clutched at its knee, howling and limping.
"Go on, go on!" Conan shouted, by way of encouragement. He had seldom seen a boy becoming a man more splendidly than Bora son of Rhafi.
Conan heard no reply. Stopping only to cut at the head of a demon sitting alone, he reached the little rise where Illyana stood.
Had stood, rather. Now she knelt, one hand supporting herself, fingers splayed across the rock. The other hand clutched at her bare breast, as though the heart within pained her.
Two paces in front of her, the Jewel glowed in its ring. Glowed, and to Conan's eyes seemed to quiver faintly.
"Illyana!"
"No, Conan! Do not approach her! I tried, and look at me!"
Raihna came over the rise, sword in one hand, the other hand dangling at her side. Conan looked, and saw that the dangling hand was clenched into a fist, with the muscles jumping and twisting like mice under a blanket. Sweat poured off Raihna's face, and when she spoke again Conan heard the agony in her voice.
"I tried to approach her," Raihna repeated. "I thrust a hand too close. It was like dipping it in molten metal. Is it—do I yet have a hand?"
"It's not burned or wounded, that I can see," Conan said. "What did Illyana mean by casting such a spell, the fool?"
"She—oh, Conan. It is not her spell that commands here now. It is the Jewel itself—perhaps both of t
hem together!"
What Conan might have said to that remained forever unknown. The demons he had outrun reached the foot of the rise and swarmed up it. At the same moment, so did Captain Shamil and a half-score of his veterans, seeking to cut off the demons.
Demons and men alike died in uncounted numbers in the time needed to gulp a cup of wine. Conan shouted to Raihna to guard her mistress and plunged down into the fight. He was not in time to keep one demon from gutting Shamil. The captain screamed but kept flailing with his sword, until a second demon twisted his head clean off his shoulders.
Conan caught the first demon as it bent over Shamil, to feed on his trailing guts. Even beneath the scale armor, the spine gave way to a Cimmerian sword-stroke. The demon slumped on top of its prey as its comrade dashed up the rise.
Conan knew that he would be too late to save Raihna from having to meet the demon one-handed. Prudently, Raihna did not try. She leaped back, losing only most of her tunic and some skin from her left breast. The demon lunged again, and this time Raihna feinted with her sword to draw its gaze, then kicked it hard in the thigh.
Its clutching talons scored Raihna's boot deeply. A trifle closer, and it would have gained a death-grip on her leg. Raihna had made no mistake, however. Off balance, the demon staggered and fell, within a pace of Illyana.
It never reached the ground. A child's height above the ground, an invisible hand caught it. A spasm wracked the demon's body, as if every muscle and sinew was being twisted and stretched at once. It screamed, then flew through the air, landing among its comrades just as they overcame the last of Shamil's men. Conan turned to face the demons, suspecting this might be his last fight.
Instead the demons turned and ran. They ran back through the gap in the line before anyone could think to close it and cut them off. Bora sent a final stone after them, but hit nothing.