Conan grasped his hilt and tipped the blade’s jagged end skyward, clinging to the grip with all his strength.
Blackblade fell full onto it, his own bulk punching it past his armour and driving it through his midriff. He grunted and sank to his knees, pinning Conan to the floor.
The Cimmerian twisted his blade and tried to rip it upward, but Blackblade let go of his sword and seized Conan’s hands, pulling them from the hilt of the broken blade.
The huge Acheronian leered at Conan and yanked the length of steel from his own guts, laughing at the blood that sloshed onto his armour. He shifted his grip on the hilt and lifted the sword high, his arms rippling with layers of muscle, red foam flying from his lips. “So the flea can bite,” he chuckled.
His arms came down.
Conan twisted aside and shot out his hands, grasping Blackblade’s thick wrists. The jagged, blood-smeared blade-tip stopped a hand-span from his eye.
Blackblade sneered and spat. He flexed biceps at thick as Conan’s thighs and drove the sharp steel downward, slowly, pushing back the Cimmerian’s arms.
XIX
Blood and Bone
Thoth-amon felt the tremors of energy that emanated from within the ruined temple of Ibis. Like wrinkles in the very fabric of existence, they bespoke the awakening of the Chaos-God, imprisoned for aeons, but stirring now to wakefulness. Had the true name been spoken already? Would the Grim Grey God appear and swallow this place in its void-like maw? Not yet, he decided. But the key had been fitted in the lock of the god’s prison, waiting only for someone to turn it. Tevek would doom them all, unless Thoth-amon stopped him.
Slaying Tevek would not do—not yet. First he would recover his Black Ring from the necromancer. Then he would see if Tevek had learned the true name somehow, and if so, determine the means by which he had discovered it. When he knew what Tevek knew, he would finish the fool by abruptly snuffing the Taper of Death. Unfortunately, the translocation had drained his reserves of magical energy even more than he would have guessed. He could not risk a direct assault upon Tevek, not when the necromancer might turn the Black Ring against him. Without his Black Ring, Thoth-amon's options were limited.
The Stygian stooped upon the roof of the temple. His coal-black pupils scanned it briefly before he looked down, inside the building, to behold the scene within. The floor was too far away for him to jump. He peered at the be-robed form crumpled upon the floor.
Tevek Thul! Unexpected was the sight of the necromancer lying still upon his belly, but more surprising still were the warriors who Struggled, locked in combat, not three paces from the pearl idol.
The idol would not be easy to seize. He weighed the risk and decided he would first see if only these two brutes were present. If so, he could defeat them and take the stone. He peered at the larger of the two warriors, and a sudden shock of recognition paled his dusky face.
It was no ordinary warrior who fought within—neither of them were, he realized. The struggling duo were none other than Conan of Cimmeria, whose path—and purposes—had crossed his own more than once. The man had the devil’s own luck. But more of a shock was the realization that Conan fought with a warrior who had been high of rank in the long-dead army of Acheron. There could be no mistaking the symbols emblazoned upon the back piece of his armour—they were of the House of Ixion, father of Acheron’s most insidious mage.
This was the warrior spoken of by Set—the warrior who possessed the full name of the Grim Grey God! Thoth-amon knew then that he must destroy that warrior immediately. More than ever, he needed his Black Ring.
Thoth-amon focused his thoughts inward and mumbled sibilant words in a rhythmic dirge. The spell would turn his physical form from solid flesh-and-bone into spectre. He would float through the hole in the roof, down to the floor, return to his corporeal form, and seize the ring.
Then he would blast the Acheronian warlord into oblivion and seize the pearl statue. Set would again be pleased with his chosen one.
When the last words of his chant faded, and he had completed his spectral transformation, a painfully bright glow lit the roof nearby. Thoth-amon squinted into it, a bleak smile spreading across his thin lips.
“Caranthes, tender of bleating fools who debase themselves before the lowest of long-vanquished deities. You are in water too deep for one who cannot swim, Caranthes!”
“You’ll not have the god,” replied the radiant apparition, no trace of fear in its dulcet voice. “You’ll not unleash Chaos, degenerate one!”
“Drooling dotard! Father Set seeks order for the world, not Chaos.”
“Spare me your lies.” The apparition shook its head. “Only those of my priesthood know the god’s name.”
“Impotent Ibis-worshipper! The god has six names, only half of which are known to you. You were a fool to spirit walk here, and leave your soul vulnerable to me. With the dark power granted me by Father Set, I shall seize the idol... and forever banish your essence into the blackest void!” As he spoke, Thoth-amon stepped forward and extended his hands toward Caranthes, his fingers clenched like claws. From the palms sprang thin strands of green fire, like the fibres of a net.
Moments later, Caranthes’ apparition was encircled by the strands. They squeezed inward, compressing the white aura.
Caranthes’ image collapsed upon itself and winked out, to reappear a few paces away. “Your magic cannot deter me, Stygian,” he said. “This time you have stuck out your scaly neck too far... feel now the holy fire of Ibis as it bums away your rancid soul!” The apparition’s aura stretched and suddenly lashed out, like a tongue of white flame.
Thoth-amon gestured hastily. A translucent green disc appeared in mid-air before him, barely deflecting the assault.
The duel raged on, while the strange, swirling effect expanded slowly outward, drawing nearer to the High Priest of Ibis and the Stygian Prince of Sorcerers.
Conan’s muscles heaved until the tendons stood out rope-like on his massive biceps. In his fists he gripped Blackblade’s thick forearms. Sweat and blood from the black-mailed behemoth dripped onto him as Blackblade shoved the broken sword closer and closer to Conan’s face.
The Acheronian warlord laughed triumphantly. “Weak worm of a Northlander—I’ll split your skull with your own blade ere I send you screaming to Gehanna!”
Reeling, blood coursing through his body like the rapids of a raging river, the Cimmerian shoved upward. He pitted his knotted thews against hie foeman’s inhuman strength. From his bloodied lips came the Cimmerian war-cry, and with it, a burst of might welled from deep within him.
Blackblade’s elbows bent backward, the snap of bone audible above his anguished yell.
Jade rushed into the chamber as the broken sword spun away. Several paces from her, Tevek was reaching around to tug the Red Asp from where it lodged in his back. “Conan—behind you!” she gasped.
The Cimmerian twisted his head around. “Crom!” He flailed with his fist at the lunging necromancer.
Blackblade picked up his huge sword and swung it.
The three combatants met at once, Conan’s fist knocking Tevek’s arm aside, into the path of the Acheronian’s sword. Steel met flesh, slicing off half of the necromancer’s hand, leaving only the thumb-stump attached. The detached chunk of flesh hit the floor, the Black Ring clinking against the marble.
Tevek, abruptly separated from the ring, felt his power diminish. His vision grew dark, his hearing faded. He groped for the severed member.
Conan saw the movement from the comer of his eye and kicked the hand away.
The necromancer trembled with a chill that seized every pore of his dead flesh, penetrating to the very marrow in his bones. He shook, losing control of his limbs, slumping to the marble but not seeing, hearing, or feeling the impact. Death is so cold, was his final thought, so cold.
Blackblade rose slowly to his feet, blood oozing from the hole in his midriff and spattering the floor in thick droplets. He limped toward the idol and cradled it
in his dangling arms, swaying unsteadily.
Flashes of green and white, originating from the hole in the roof, illuminated the chamber.
“Thoth-amon,” growled Conan, staring upward.
“And Caranthes,” panted Jade.
The Acheronian warlord chuckled, ignoring the spectacle.
The priest’s apparition looked down upon them. “Nay! Take the god away from him, lest he utter more—” He stopped, winking out as green tendrils surrounded his alabaster aura.
“Crom and Mitra!” Conan grabbed Blackblade’s sword, grunting with its weight, seemingly equal to that of a blacksmith’s anvil. Wincing as he willed his strained, aching muscles to lift the immense blade, Conan heaved it into the air and managed a clumsy swing.
It bit into Blackblade’s side, crunching through the breastplate. Red-slimed innards spilled onto the marble floor, and the Acheronian staggered. Stubbornly, he held onto the god and opened his mouth.
Conan forced his arms to lift the sword again, but they moved slowly, too slowly.
Swirls of shadow rose from the idol in whirling spirals, spinning outward and upward.
The Cimmerian felt invisible hands tug gently at him, as if trying to draw him into that spectral cyclone.
Above, Caranthes’ apparition reappeared, this time less distinct and more ivory than white. “Flee!” he wailed. “Run for your lives, both of you!” He turned away from them and stared at the Stygian. ‘Thoth-amon—we must destroy the idol together! Say the three names known to you, in reverse. Then I shall say mine!”
Thoth-amon's claw-like fingers fired another burst of green strands. Thin and stunted, they travelled slowly through the shadow-filled air, clutching feebly at the ivory aura. But this time they slid away. “Speak your names first,” he replied. “Then I shall say all six and destroy the god once and for all.”
Conan struck again with Blackblade’s sword. The giant’s words turned to a grunt; he tottered but tenaciously clung to the idol.
The invisible pull became stronger, dragging Conan toward it and forcing him to drop the sword.
“Nay, you first, Stygian viper—” began Caranthes.
“Slack-witted sheep of Ibis—”
“Speak the name!” Jade shrieked. “Now!” She struggled to step away from the spinning disturbance that surrounded the pearl statue.
“Say it, by Crom!” Conan thundered.
“Dreifa,” Thoth-amon muttered.
Conan wrenched his body from the air’s binding grasp and dashed toward the temple’s entrance.
Jade took hold of his brawny arm, running after him.
“Avitun, Nauoga,” continued the Stygian.
Conan and Jade ran through the corridor and out the crumbling door.
“lolagi...”
Down the steps and past the heaps of bone, both into the saddle of Jade’s steed.
“Utlagi...”
Galloping hooves, frustratingly slow-going even on the hard-packed sand.
“Skaoa!”
A low rumble shook the ground. The apparition of Caranthes flickered once and was gone.
Thoth-amon's eyes narrowed. He floated down to the floor, toward the gory hand that lay there. He transformed again to flesh and blood, then tugged the Black Ring free. With a cry of exultation, he slid it around his finger. Thoth-amon spared a final glance in the direction the Cimmerian had fled. “One day we shall meet again, dog!” he laughed. He would have given chase, but he had only just enough energy and time left to float to the roof and transport himself away. The barbarian was unimportant now anyway.
Moments later, Thoth-amon disappeared in a flare of green fire.
Far away, from atop their horses, Conan and Jade watched in awe as the brass spire, the marble tower, the high walls—all bent inward, like wax melting in the hot sun. They swirled, mixing with the shadowy mist, which suddenly collapsed upon itself.
Of the temple, the tower, the spire and its occupants, naught remained but a chunk of white rock, nestled in the still sands of the Nithian desert.
Tevek’s mind cleared. He knew instantly that he was no longer in the ruined temple. He had awakened in an unbearably bright place, and immediately he tried to close his eyes—but he could not. Lifting his good hand to shield his face, he saw that all of his flesh had fallen from him; only bone remained. He felt his head and realized that he had no eyelids—nor eyes. Only hollow sockets.
Human forms moved nearby in the searing whiteness, their sombre faces somehow familiar. Yes, the people of the village— Kaetta. They clustered around him, pressing inward, trapping his arms, more and more of them, all those who had died in the massacre.
The brightness intensified as increasing numbers of his victims surrounded him.
He could not move, nor lift a hand to shield his eyes from the agonizing white fire that burned him, sending waves of wracking agony that crowded out any other awareness.
Tevek longed for the pain to diminish, but he knew it would not. A thing of bone and spirit was he, imprisoned in a Hell built by his necromancy.
Immortal.
Soundlessly, Tevek Thul screamed... and screamed.
And screamed.
Epilogue
The Hawk
A warm tropical breeze stirred Conan’s mane as he stared across the shimmering blue waters. “Crom, Rulvio, but it’s good to be back among the dogs, with the wind at our back and the Hawk more seaworthy than ever.”
“Aye, by Dagon’s guts,” Rulvio nodded, slamming his palm against Conan’s broad, sun-bronzed back. He winked. “That be some treasure ye fetched up in the desert. Mayhap the lads would go afoot, were such bounty not so rare.”
Sivitri had accepted Conan’s offer to join him, for a time, aboard the Hawk. She stood at the rail, her generous charms revealed in her low-cut tunic and short breeks. A thin scimitar hung from her belt. She turned and shot a scolding look at Rulvio, tossing her hair back in defiance.
Conan grinned, rubbing his hands together. The stain from the Golden Lotus juice still lingered on his and Sivitri’s fingers, where they had dipped into the last of the dead assassin’s bladder of the precious nectar to rid themselves of the Nithian desert’s wasting disease before its effects had begun to show. That same wondrous substance had also banished Toj’s poisons from Sivitri’s body.
“I see why you like the ocean-going life,” mused the woman to Conan. “’Tis freedom with not too steep a price.”
The Cimmerian eyed her wolfishly. They had argued all the way from the Nithian desert to Saridis. There, they learned that Narsur had disappeared mysteriously, and with him had vanished the roomful of gold.
Sivitri had instead given Conan the huge amethysts from the door, appeasing his ire at the loss of the gold and softening his mood enough for another night in the citadel’s baths. Conan grinned at the memory of the baths, and the nights they had enjoyed since then.
Wizards and bedevilled relics be damned! Better an honest rogue’s life for him—fine wine in the hold, able-bodied lads in good spirits, cargo-laden merchant ships ripe for the plucking. At his side, a woman with beauty matched only by her passion, and adventure aplenty waiting in the waters ahead. Conan threw an arm around Sivitri and laughed gustily, watching the sun break across the ocean in a thousand dazzling hues.
Table of Contents
Prologue
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
Epilogue
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