If asked, Conan would have wagered on the younger man to win the match. He was faster, undoubtedly stronger, and more aggressive. From the way he moved, he was no stranger to this kind of training fight. He had the edge, for the old man had demonstrated none of these qualities.
The younger man attacked. He leaped forward, raised his cane overhead, and snapped it down sharply, as if to split the older man's white forelock and the head beneath it. It was a fast strike, but hard, and had it landed, it would have knocked the old man senseless, or worse.
The old man shifted his body a hair to his left, moving slowly, it seemed to Conan, and whipped his own cane up and down in a shallow curve.
The young man's stroke missed cleanly.
The old man's cut took the other on the side, smacking loudly into a rib. The white-haired man danced a short step farther away and turned, his cane again raised to the other's throat. The young man recovered and turned to face his opponent.
After a moment, the two men relaxed, and smiled at each other.
Ho, Conan thought, sometimes the slow serpent kills the quick rat! He realized he had just learned something important. That the old man had not obviously shown his skill sooner did not mean he was without any. Impressive.
"Come and meet Oblate Kensash," Cengh said.
The old man was showing his opponent the manner of his strike, when Conan and Cengh approached.
"This is the man I spoke of," Cengh said.
"Ah," Kensash said, "the outland swordfighter. Cengh has spoken highly of your skill."
"And I have just seen yours," Conan replied.
Kensash shrugged. "Malo is my best student. Malo, this is Conan, of whom you have heard."
Malo, Conan could see, was unimpressed with whatever stories he had been told. He smirked at Conan, looking pointedly at his long black hair and darkly tanned skin. He said, "You seem fairly strong, outlander. Perhaps you would engage in a match with me?"
"I do not know the rules of your game."
"Game?" Malo bristled. "Men have died playing this game! No rules, save to win!"
Conan looked at Kensash. The old man wore a sad smile. "Sometimes Malo is impetuous. You are a guest; and not a student. You need not fight."
Conan grinned. "Let Malo teach me this stick game."
Kensash tendered his cane to Conan, who weighed it in his hands, swung it a few times to get the feel, and nodded at Malo. "When you are ready."
Malo grinned wolfishly and danced back two steps, to bring his cane into guard position.
Conan stood relaxed, his own weapon hanging loosely in one hand by his side.
Malo seemed impatient. "Raise your weapon! Protect yourself!"
"No need," Conan said.
That enraged Malo. He leaped at Conan and swung his cane at the Cimmerian's head. Conan stepped in toward his attacker and caught the moving stick with his left hand. The look of puzzlement on Malo's face changed to shock as Conan brought his stick first against Malo's side and then against his head. Malo dropped, stunned.
Kensash laughed, and Conan's own smile was unforced.
Malo managed to reach his feet. "You cheated! If I had been using a real sword, you would have lost your hand grabbing it!"
Conan said, "Had you been using a real sword, I would not have been so foolish as to clutch at it. You were using only a stick."
"But it is supposed to represent a real blade!"
"Then consider that my bare hand represented an armored gauntlet."
Malo's rage would have continued, but Kensash waved him to silence. "Would you care for a match with an old man, Conan?" he asked softly.
"Aye. "
The brawny Cimmerian faced the old master. For several moments neither man moved. Then Conan shifted his stance slightly to the left.
Kensash adjusted his own feet a hair, no more.
Conan moved a shade to his right.
Kensash duplicated the motion.
After a series of such moves and countermoves, Conan knew that no matter what he did to prepare for an attack, the old man would be ready for him. To hit at this opponent was to invite instant retaliation. The Cimmerian way was to attack, and Crom take the consequences, but Conan knew that such an attack on this particular enemy would result in mutual slaying, did they both wield real swords. He was brave, but he was not insensitive to his instincts. Skill could balance bravery, were it enough, and Kensash was the most skillful swordsman Conan had ever faced.
The young Cimmerian lowered his cane and nodded at the old master.
Kensash returned Conan's nod. "You are wise beyond your years, Conan of Cimmeria. Should you elect to stay, I would be honored to teach you my small learnings."
"Nay, Oblate, not small. But my path lies elsewhere."
As Conan and Cengh left the training yard, the Cimmerian could feel the gaze of the frustrated Malo burning into his spine.
Tuanne walked, her feet shod in new boots, her body covered with new breeches and tunic, under a warm cloak of soft fur. The man who had provided these things had considered himself fortunate in the exchange. He had desired her, had met her terms, and made payment before he had ever touched her. The grave-chill of her flesh had turned his thoughts from lust to fear. He was, Tuanne knew, glad to be rid of her. So now the beautiful zombie walked the southern fork of the High Brythunian Road, traveling east toward her goal.
There was no way to know how far she must journey, nor how long it would take. She had no need of food, nor of rest, and she would continue as long as it took.
She had nothing if not time.
Chapter Four
In the bowels of Neg the Malefic's temple was a room unlike any of those surrounding it. This chamber held within its polished white marble walls a spire of pure quartz crystal, half the height of a man and as thick as a man's thigh. The top of the crystal had been sheared flat, and a hollow scooped from the transparent mineral, a space no larger than a child's fist. Nothing else occupied the dustless white floor, save the spire. On the gleaming walls were set carven crystal sconces, each bearing several special, slender tapers that burned smokelessly, casting smooth yellow light to every corner. The room was the antithesis of the remainder of the temple; it was clean and light and pure. Each hour, five of the Men With No Eyes came and wiped each surface carefully, to maintain that purity.
Neg strode into the chamber and observed the crystal spire. The room existed as a focus for the talisman he sought; when he had the Source of Light, it would rest in the spire of crystal. Once properly utilized, the immense powers held in the fetish would flow, and Neg would receive them. It was a secret he had stumbled upon during his questionings of the restored dead.
Neg smiled at the thought. Yes. He ranked among the highest in his control of necromantic energies, but there were limits. Once bathed in the energies of the Source of Light, he would be paramount in that rank. Strange, that such dark energies could come from something that seemed so opposite. But it was not his philosophy to ponder the "why" of such a thing, only the "how." It was enough that light and dark could be mixed to produce the results he sought. Power. Ultimate control of the dead. With a wave of his newly augmented hand, Neg would be able to raise a legion of dead to command; a second wave would put them back into eternal slumber just as easily. In battle his troops would be invincible; more, each living soldier who fell would become his thrall instantly. How unnerving that would be, to suddenly see one's battle companion rise from death to become an enemy!
It would be only a matter of a short time. Soon, Skeer would fetch that which he had been sent to collect. Soon, he would travel back to the temple of the Men With No Eyes and present the prize to his master. And soon, Neg the Malefic would become Neg the Omnipotent.
Abruptly, Neg spun, his robes flaring out, and stalked from the shining chamber. As he walked the darker hall, he saw the Men With No Eyes come to maintain the polish of the waiting chamber. Good. Good . . .
Conan made ready to depart from the Temple
That Will Not Fall. He was much refreshed, and somewhat better supplied than he had been before meeting Cengh. Along with the new sheath for his blade, he now bore a pack filled with smoked fish and dried leathery strips of fruit, enough for several days sustenance. He had watched the old swordmaster practice for a time, and had learned from his observations. It was tempting to stay and enjoy this easy life, but his urge to travel would not be denied. Shadizar called.
The Cimmerian had taken his leave of Cengh and begun wending his way through the narrow streets of the temple city, when he nearly stumbled upon something that made him pause.
Crouched behind a crate of refuse was a priest. The hiding figure appeared to be watching a second priest who looked travel-worn and dusty as he made his way along one of the minor thoroughfares. More interesting to Conan was the fact that the crouching priest clutched a short dagger in one slim hand, ready to strike. Ho, an assassination?
The knife-wielding figure suddenly spun and spied Conan watching him. The Cimmerian caught a glimpse of the face under the cowl. It looked familiar, that face, young and almost girlish-The priest sprang for Conan, knife lifted as if to stab.
There was no time to pull his sword. Conan shifted to his left, a quick, sliding step, and swung his knotted fist overhead. The hard edge of his compacted palm smacked into the attacker's wrist, knocking the knife free of its owner's grasp. The priest cursed in a high voice and tried to dart away. Conan lunged and caught a handful of robe. He jerked hard, and the priest lost his footing and tumbled to the ground, sprawling onto his back. Before he could move, Conan dropped to his knees astride the fallen priest, pinning his arms. The Cimmerian pushed the cowl away.
And beheld the face of a woman.
Her hair was hacked off short, shorter than Conan's own, but her face was not merely that of a girlish male. He knew a woman when he saw one. But to be certain, he slid one hand along the fallen "priest's" chest, and discovered the soft swelling of a female breast.
This gesture did not please the woman. She renewed her efforts to escape, and cursed Conan through gritted teeth.
"Ignorant savage beast! Mitra take your manhood!"
Conan grinned. A spirited woman, to curse a man who held her so. Aloud, he said, "Who are you? Why did you try to stab me?"
"Dog, son of a dog, eater of offal, get off me!"
Conan nodded. He clamped one powerful hand around the girl's wrist, arose from his knees, and regarded her.
"Release me!"
"When you answer my questions."
"I shall scream!"
"Oh? And show the good priests that a woman has defiled their temple?"
That shut her up. She took several deep, sighing breaths, and regarded Conan more closely. As she did, he remembered where he had seen her before. On the day he had arrived, she had been picking over fruit on the main street. He had thought that one of the priests looked less than mannish.
Apparently, she decided that screaming was not in her best interests.
"Well?"
"That priest has something that belongs to me," she said. "I sought to recover it."
"By slaying him?"
"No. I would have used the dagger to ensure the return of my property, no more."
"Then why attack me?"
"I thought you meant to stop me."
"Not I," Conan said. "I was merely passing."
"Then release me, so that I might finish my business. This is no concern of yours."
"It became my concern when you tried to skewer me."
"Barbaric fool! I must get to that priest before he reaches the Highest Oblate! I am sorry I mistook your intent. Please!"
Conan considered it. He had no responsibility to the priests and it was not his business, true enough. He released his grip.
Without pausing, the young woman ran to her fallen dagger, snatched it up, and sprinted from the alley.
Conan had but a brief moment before he heard her yell. She could not have reached the priest in that time. His curiosity piqued, he strode to the mouth of the alley and cast a glance after the ersatz priest.
If seeing the girl had been interesting, what he now saw was much more so: two priests stood and wrestled in the street a hundred yards distant, one bearing a short blade that glittered in the morning's golden sunlight. A third priest lay on the dusty street, a bloody stream running from his back to stain both robe and dust crimson. And the woman ran toward the two fighting men, her own knife held ready to strike.
As Conan watched, the priest with the knife drove that weapon home into the belly of the other; the wounded man clutched at his entrails and fell, red seeping between his fingers. The assassin turned to the other fallen man and ripped the bleeding man's purse from his belt. He checked it, and seemed satisfied. He then spotted the running woman and turned to flee. In a moment, he was gone, into the maw of a nearby alley. The woman veered away from the fallen men after the assassin, but he had several seconds head start. If he knew the streets, it would be unlikely that she would catch him.
It was not his business, but Conan walked to the fallen priests, curiosity running stronger than before. As he neared the stabbed men, he recognized one of them.
The belly-stabbed man was Cengh.
Suddenly this did concern the Cimmerian. Cengh was his friend. Rage enveloped Conan in a flash.
"Cengh!"
The priest coughed. "C-C-Conan. I thought you g-gone."
"Let me see the wound."
Cengh shook his head. "You cannot help. I am mortally stabbed." Cengh coughed again, and the blood flowed stronger between his fingers.
"Who did this? Why?"
"The S-S-Source of . . . Light. He t-took it."
"Who?"
The dying priest shook his head again. "I do not know him. One of Neg's hirelings. You-you must . . . recover it, Conan. Otherwise Neg will, he will . . ." Cengh coughed again, a racking, shuddering movement that ended in blood-spitting.
"Speak, Cengh! Who is Neg? Where can I find him?"
A look of peace flowed over the man's features then, and he went slack in Conan's arms.
Conan's rage flamed higher. Dead!
The young Cimmerian stood, his fists knotted tightly into hammers, his mighty chest rising and falling with his breaths. He had known Cengh but a short time, but the man had been his friend, had fed and clothed him, had shared danger with him. Shadizar could wait. Somebody was going to pay for this.
Somebody was going to pay dearly for this.
Skeer made his way to the main gate quickly, after losing his pursuer. The appearance of the small, knife-wielding priest and the barbarian had been a surprise, but in the end, they mattered not. He had the talisman. In a few moments, he would be clear of the temple and on his way, with no more than a week or ten days journey ahead of him. Neg would be pleased, and Skeer would soon be rich.
Conan picked a spot on the trail out of sight of the main temple gate, a place narrow enough so anyone attempting to pass him could not do so without being seen. He crouched in the shelter of one of the scraggly bushes and waited.
He did not doubt that the assassin would leave the temple with his booty. If he had been quick enough, Conan thought, he might have beaten the killer to this point. If so, then the man was dead. On the other hand, if the cutthroat had gotten out ahead of him, waiting here only gave him a greater lead.
The Cimmerian decided he would wait for what he thought sufficient time, and if the false priest did not appear, then he would see if he could pick up his trail farther down the mountain. Failing in that, he would inquire after someone Cengh had called "Neg." The hireling would eventually return to his master, and both could be recipients of Conan's ire.
The cold scratched with sharp claws at Conan through his cloak, but he ignored it. Chill winds ruffled his square-cut mane and brought moisture to his fiery blue eyes, but he paid them no worry, either.
An hour after he had begun his vigil, a solitary figure dressed in gray robes approached Conan's
hiding place, coming from the city.
Conan grinned wolfishly and picked his sword up from the rock against which it leaned. He had removed it from the sheath early on, so that even the whisper of leather against iron would not betray his position when the time came. He slipped from the boulder upon which he had perched and gathered his energies to spring. A bit closer, come a bit closer . . . .
Conan leaped from concealment and brandished his broadsword, ready to behead the cowled figure. "Prepare to join your cursed gods, assassin!"
The robed figure backed away quickly and raised one hand in a gesture meant to halt Conan. "Wait!" came the voice. "You are mistaken!"
Even as he stalked forward, ready to decapitate the speaker, Conan recognized the voice. Even as she quickly pulled the cowl back to reveal her face.
The young woman from the alley.
Conan lowered the sword, disgusted. "You."
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
"Waiting for the man who assassinated my friend. Consider yourself lucky you are not him."
She had no answer for that. But after a moment, she said, "I fear you will wait forever for Skeer. I had to wait for my chance to slip from the temple-the murders have caused the city to be sealed. If he is inside, the priests will find him. If without, I fear he has already made his way past this point."
Conan fastened on the name she spoke. "Skeer, you said?"
She shook her head, as if she had just realized she had spoken too much.
Conan raised his blade again. "I will have what you know of this, woman. If it was not my business before, it is now. Speak!"
"You would not kill a woman?"
"Mayhaps not. But there are other ways to obtain information. "
That threat seemed to shake her. She sighed. "Very well. I shall tell you. We are both bent on the same business, that of revenge."
Conan waited.
"I am called Elashi. I come from the desert region of Khauran; my people are nomads, and have wandered the wastes for at least a hundred generations. The one you seek is called Skeer, and he is in the service of a black necromancer. "
"That would be Neg," Conan said.
The Conan Compendium Page 31