If anything, the temple was larger than it seemed from without. There were streets, houses, larger buildings, indeed, it should be, called the City That Will Not Fall, Conan thought.
Cengh waved at robed figures as he passed them, and they smiled and waved in return. It did not take Conan long to realize that all the people he saw were male. There were children playing here and there, but all boys. He remarked upon this to Cengh.
"True," the priest said. "Women are not allowed inside the temple. We are a celibate order."
Conan considered this for a moment.
"How then do you produce children?"
Cengh laughed. "We do not. Our acolytes journey from all over to join us here."
"Why?"
"It is a good life, especially for the children of poor men. We offer food, shelter, clothing, faith, and knowledge. "
"But no women."
"The life of a priest is not for every man."
"Indeed," Conan said. Although young, the Cimmerian knew that much about himself. Eating roots and being without the company of women held no attraction for him.
As the two passed a knot of men examining a basket of fruit, Conan caught a glimpse of a particularly smooth face under one of the cowls. At least one of these young would-be priests looked almost girlish.
Not a few of the robed figures returned Conan's appraising looks. Conan felt his anger bubble as some of the younger boys smiled and pointed at his ragged furs. How many of them had escaped slavery and fought wolves and a corpse? he wondered.
"Pay them no mind, Conan," Cengh said. "They are ignorant of a man's worth. They will learn."
"If they survive." Conan's voice was a low rumble.
A bleating goat ran past, and a fat, robed figure chased it, yelling, "Halt, beast! I have already lost your sister and her milk! Come back!"
Conan laughed at the sight, and his anger, quick to rise, fled just as quickly.
Cengh led Conan to a building cut and assembled from a smooth, white rock. Inside was a pool set into the floor. Warm vapor arose from the surface of the clear water; a clean, sharp scent reached the younger man's nostrils.
"The waters are for soaking," the priest said. "Perhaps you would care to bathe?"
The young Cimmerian giant nodded. Heated water, and clean? Aye, he would care to wash the stench of travel and furs from his muscular form.
"I shall have clothing brought to you. I must go and deliver my message before I can partake of the mint pool myself. "
Conan nodded, already stripping the furs from his body. He laid his sword near the edge of the pool and stepped into the water. Ah, here was a pleasure! The water was so hot it raised gooseflesh. Conan sat, and the relaxing hotness rose to his chin. He closed his eyes. Ah . . .
As Cengh made his way toward the Highest Oblate's chambers, he was unaware that one of the ubiquitous robed figures took a special notice of his passage. The figure seemed no different from any of the others attending to various chores along the main thoroughfare of the temple city; it was, however, a counterfeit. The gray robes covered one called Skeer, and he had been many things: thief, footpad, spy, and assassin, but never a priest. His presence inside the Temple That Will Not Fall was the result of careful planning backed by the forces of evil magic.
Skeer drew his pay from Neg, master of necromancy.
Quickly, Skeer established his secretive watch. He was most adept at this, a skill born of long practice, and aided muchly by his appearance. Neg's agent had a face that practically radiated truth and innocence. It had been said of Skeer that should he be caught stabbing a fat merchant repeatedly, he could claim to be merely cleaning his dagger and be believed, such was his countenance.
The priest presented no challenge to his follower's talents. Skeer paused now and then, and pretended to examine his sandal or something of interest in a shop window, but these subterfuges were more to keep in practice than for actual need. Cengh never looked in his shadower's direction. The fool.
Cengh entered a building, and Skeer hurried to follow him. The priest would be delivering a message shortly to someone-Neg's agent did not know to whom-but it was paramount that he be in a position to overhear that message. According to his sources, vital information would be contained in Cengh's recital. Failure to obtain that information would delay Skeer's success in his mission. Neg would not be pleased at any delay, and Skeer most assuredly did not wish to incur the necromancer's displeasure.
He shuddered at the thought.
So it happened that when Cengh delivered himself of a most important message to the Highest Oblate, a set of ears for which it had been unintended also received the words. And a smile came to the lips of a face so angelic even the mother of its owner's most cruelly murdered victim would have difficulty disliking it.
Behind a stall for housing rams, Skeer raised a short, fat-bladed dagger over the breast of a securely trussed goat. The fat priest would never find his lost beast. Or if so, it would be in no condition to produce additional milk. The goat had a greater destiny.
Skeer plunged the dagger downward, and skewered the animal's heart. Blood pumped, and the man cupped his hands to catch the warm fluid. He raised his hands and lowered them thrice, according to the spell, and chanted the phrase Neg had carefully drilled into him.
By warmth growing cold, by life made dead, by the Gray Beyond, I seek the Connection!
Skeer then tossed the blood into the air, and drew the arcane symbol representing Neg upon his left wrist with blood on the tip of his right forefinger. The air in front of him shimmered and seemed to thicken. The man shivered. He had done this several times before, and each time was no better than the last. He grew cold, as if dipped into a stream of melted snow.
"SPEAK." The voice came from the rippling air in front of Skeer, disembodied, but loud and powerful.
"I have the arrival details of that which you seek, lord."
"I EXPECTED NO LESS. WHEN?"
"Three days, lord."
"GOOD. DO NOT FAIL ME, SKEER. "
"Never, my lord."
The air shivered, much as the man who beheld it, and all of a moment, returned to its natural state. Skeer took a deep breath, and allowed it to escape slowly. The idea of failure flitted only briefly across his mind. He put the thought away in haste. Best not to think of that.
One of the Men With No Eyes glided to a stop in front of Neg. The necromancer regarded the visage. The name was not accurate, strictly speaking. His servants did have eyes. Those globes were entirely white, with what seemed to be clouds shifting back and forth in the milky orbs, so that an ordinary man watching might fear for his sanity. And such optics were useless for seeing, of course. But then, there were certain compensations for blindness.
Neg smiled. To the figure, he said, "Prepare the Chamber. Within a moon, I shall have that which I need to energize it."
The Man With No Eyes nodded once, bowed, and moved smoothly from Neg's personal chamber.
Ah, yes, Neg thought. Skeer had all the cunning of a weasel, and the morality and loyalty, too, but he would do as he was instructed. He feared to do otherwise, and with good reason. Soon. Soon.
A boy brought clothing to the enclosed pool in which Conan soaked. Decent clothing, too, the Cimmerian noted. For a time he had mused that he might be offered a priest's robes, but no, these items were ordinary, save for their good quality. There were underbreeks of some silken cloth, short leathern breeches, thickly cut sandals with long leg ties, a supple leather tunic, and even a belt and purse. The last was quite empty, Conan noted. All this was set upon a thick towel.
Conan stepped from the bath and dried himself, then proceeded to dress. By Crom, the clothing even fit!
As he was lacing the final strap on his new sandal, Cengh returned. He nodded at the Cimmerian, then shucked his robes and sank into the heated and scented waters.
"Ah. The gods be praised for hot water!"
Conan nodded. He felt a great deal better himself.
; Cengh said, "If you can spare me a few moments to cleanse away my travel dust, I suspect I can find someone willing to feed us."
The young Cimmerian nodded again. Food would be welcome enough. "Do the Oblates believe in drinking the products of the grape?"
The priest laughed. "Wine? But of course! We are not barbarians-" Cengh fell silent suddenly. "I meant no insult, Conan."
"It is no insult. And barbarians invented wine."
"But priests have become the experts at drinking it," Cengh said. "I shall show you."
The temple of the Men With No Eyes squatted on a dark hillside near the juncture of Corinthia, Brythunia, and Zamora. The forest at the base of the hill was dank, prey to rain that somehow fell harder and more often than it did on the surrounding territory. The storms were often charged with powerful lightning, and raged at the earth with hail and discharges, as well as pounding rains.
It was through this dark forest and in the midst of a driving storm that Tuanne made her escape from Neg the Malefic's domination. Though not living in the way of mortal men, Tuanne had no special powers that allowed her to ignore the mud-slicked ground or the bone-chilling sheets hurled by the storm. Lightning flashed and was chased by its loud brother thunder as the beautiful zombie slipped and slid away from her former prison. Her long, jet hair lay plastered to her head and back, and her flimsy clothing gaped where it had been rent in a dozen places by thorn brambles and untimely falls. More than anything, the normal coldness she felt was intensified, so that her limbs, her breasts, and her cheeks felt as if they had been carved from ice. Those foolish men who thought that zombies felt no pain knew nothing of it.
Tuanne did not know where she was going. All she knew was that the talisman she sought called to her, tugged at her as if it were attached by an invisible string. If she turned away from it, the pull increased. The Source of Light, and her salvation, lay that way, to the north and east; therefore, it was that way she would travel. Until she came to the place where the device rested, she herself would not rest. She would obtain the talisman, she would somehow use it to free herself and her brothers and sisters still held by the necromancer. Somehow.
Lightning shattered the darkness, and a nearby fir tree exploded in a spray of wood and sap. Thunder tried to hide the damage, battering at the night. Tuanne started at the light and sound, so close they came almost as one. She fell yet again, and her sodden dress tore, revealing more of her ivory skin to the storm's attack. It did not matter. She would find new clothing. It would not warm her, but that did not matter, either. She had a goal, and a hundred years of wanting it. She would endure until she reached it.
Chapter Three
Conan followed Cengh into a large hall filled with robed Oblates. Everyone, save the big Cimmerian, was dressed in the same manner, even the servers. The bath and new clothing suited the young barbar well enough, but the idea of dining on roots and berries created less enthusiasm. Well. He had learned to make do with what was available.
Cengh found two vacant spots on a long wooden bench along one of the tables, and gestured for Conan to sit. The Cimmerian did. He had to lean his sword against the table, for he had no scabbard. His sharp eyes had also taken note that he was the only armed man in the room. At least, the only one who had his weapon visible. He recalled Cengh's curved knife, and wondered what other loose robes might conceal.
Conan's thoughts were interrupted by a server, who sat an earthen jug down on the table, with two brass cups.
Cengh poured the wine, and offered a full cup to Conan. The Cimmerian lifted the cold brass to his lips and tilted it back. The cold wine flowed.
"This is good," Conan said. In fact, it was the best wine he had ever tasted.
Cengh smiled and refilled the empty cup. "We manage a passable vintage now and then."
A second server arrived, bearing a steaming platter. This was placed in front of Conan, who looked at it with interest. There were several small fish on the plate, and the aroma rising from them was pleasing.
Cengh produced his knife, and used it to split one of the fish along its length, revealing a long row of bones. He pried up one end of the row and peeled the entire strip away, discarding it on the empty end of the platter. "This is the best way," Cengh said. "The fish are local, caught in the mountain streams, and it is best to remove the bones, lest they stick in your throat."
Conan nodded. He had the trick. He picked up one of the fish, split the hot flesh with his fingers, and dug the thin central spine and attached bones out with one horny thumb. Then he popped most of one half of the fish into his mouth.
"This, too, is good," he managed between bites. And again, it was more than passable. The flavor was excellent, the consistency enough to provide resistance to chewing. He began to see how the priests might survive without meat. This was hardly the roots and berries he had feared.
Conan and Cengh fell to the business of eating. The platters kept coming, and after a dozen of the fish, Conan's hunger was assuaged. There was sufficient wine to mitigate his thirst, as well. Civilization did have its contents, he had to admit.
Skeer sat several tables over in the vast dining hall, near where one of the torches cast bright, flickering light upon the diners. He ate methodically, for nourishment rather than pleasure. Food was nothing, drink brought him no joy. No, Skeer's real passion came from two things: women, and the smoke of the hemp-weed. Neither of those was available in the Temple That Will Not Fall. Either of his desires was a delight; both together were as much as Skeer could wish to enjoy.
Occasionally, Skeer would cast a glance at the messenger priest and his barbarian companion. The latter ate with little regard for delicacy, and Skeer would have held him in total contempt, save for the air of alertness about him. Barbarians paid more attention to their surroundings than did civilized men, and the spy would not relish having to follow that muscular giant. Those cold blue eyes were too sharp; even Skeer's quick glances triggered some kind of atavistic response in the man. The barbarian was aware of being watched, of that the spy was certain.
Skeer went back to his meal. The barbar was of no consequence. At this point, neither was the messenger priest. What Neg the Malefic's agent needed to know he knew; it was only a matter of a few days until he could finish his mission here. When he was done, Neg's gratitude would enable Skeer to buy all the women and hemp he wished. Certainly something to look forward to, he thought.
Conan awoke with the coming of dawn. The quarters Cengh had provided were hardly luxurious; still, the room was clean, the straw mattress firm and free of vermin, and the blankets warm. A look through the small window showed that many of the priests were already about on the narrow streets, ahead of the cock's crow.
The Cimmerian youth stretched and moved to the dining hall. There seemed to be no exchange of coin for goods and services here, and Conan wondered at how well the communal living seemed to work.
The tables were laid with cheeses, boiled chicken eggs, and various fruits, along with loaves of hard black bread. Conan helped himself, washing down his meal with draughts of the priests' excellent wine. He felt much refreshed, and ready to continue his journey to Zamora.
Cengh met Conan at the exit of the dining hall. The priest carried a leather scabbard. "Ah, you are up. Have you dined?"
"Only just finished."
"Good. I thought this might make carrying your sword somewhat easier." He offered the sheath to Conan.
The brawny Cimmerian took the scabbard and examined it. It was of some rough, knobby leather, triple-stitched, with thick welting where sharp edges would touch the insides. Conan inserted the blade of his sword slowly to the guard, then jerked the weapon free. The leather hissed at the iron, but did not impede its release. A well-made sheath, and he said as much to Cengh. After a moment, a second comment arose in Conan's mind.
"If you do not kill animals, how came you by the leather for this?"
Cengh smiled, and nodded. "Why, you yourself provided it."
Cona
n looked at the sheath. The leather did look familiar. After a moment, he had it. "The stith."
"Indeed."
"But it was killed only two days past."
"It has been retrieved and utilized. We do not kill if we can help it, but neither do we waste anything."
"How came the leather to be tanned so quickly?"
"We have a . . . special process."
Magic was what Conan heard in the priest's undertone. He did not press the question further. Instead, he said, "I consider that we are quits on any debts, Cengh."
The priest said, "I consider my life worth more than I have given, but I accept your judgment, Conan of Cimmeria. "
"I shall be on my way, then."
"Perhaps you would like to see our weapon training before you depart?"
Conan considered this. Zamora would surely wait another day or two; besides, he had a young man's curiosity and Cengh's skill with his stick had been impressive. "Aye, I would like that."
"Come, then."
Conan resheathed the sword and followed Cengh.
The man was old, his hair and beard like snow, yet he stood tall and straight within his gray robes, facing a man at least forty winters his junior. Both men held short wooden canes in two-handed grips, and each stood with his weapon tip pointing at the other's throat. The younger man was stripped to a loincloth, and his frame was well covered with muscle.
The younger man shifted his stance in quick dancing steps, this way and that, moving to within an armspan of the older man, then backward, bouncing on his feet lightly.
Conan had once seen one of the serpent-killing rodents brought to Cimmeria from far Vendhya. The owner had placed the ratlike creature in a pit with one of the hooded serpents whose bite brought quick death. This young man danced around the older man as the rodent had danced around the snake. In the end, for all its deadliness, the snake had been killed itself.
The older man shifted only enough to keep his attention focused on the younger, his movements deliberate but economical.
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