They would find her.
Malo settled in a wool-shed, burrowing among the bales of fleece for warmth. His questions had determined that the barbarian who had slain two of his brother priests had indeed sought refuge here. Well, he would not find it.
That the one who called himself Conan had killed Cengh and Mikahl the Messenger Malo doubted not at all. The evidence was indisputable. The barbarian lout had fled, taking with him the Source of Light which the messenger had brought to the temple. Would an innocent man flee? Surely not.
That the Cimmerian ape had humbled and embarrassed Malo in front of his teacher merely added fuel to Malo's righteous anger. He had been quick to volunteer to join the searchers for the slayer of the two Oblates. Only this time, these would be no fimbo rules to observe. The blade Malo now had lying next to his hand was of fine Turanian steel, folded many times during its forging for strength, with an edge he could use to shave his beard. Let the ape try to catch it in his hand as he had the wooden blade, and it would be blood and bones in the dirt of the street!
For the deaths of the Oblates, Conan must die. For the embarrassment of Malo, that death would be slow and painful. He would carve the barbarian like a straw practice-post, filling the gutters with the pieces!
On the morrow he would find the killer. On the morrow, the killer would pay. With that thought, Malo slipped into a sleep laced with glorious and bloody dreams.
In the heart of Opkothard, in the depths of a black temple dedicated to the Eight-Legged God With No Name, a rail-thin priest tended to his obscene ministrations. On the altar lay the entrails of a fresh-killed ram. A dozen black spiders, each with a belly bearing a red hourglass design, scuttled through the gore. The priest watched the patterns created by the spiders, and his divinations filled him with worry. There were dangerous men in the city, some bearing Powers better not trifled with, some seeking those energies. Such men as these could create many problems, if proper attention were not paid.
The thin priest watched the spiders a moment longer, then reached for the ceremonial club at his belt. The spiders, having served their one-time purpose, were no longer energized. Carefully, but with the proper detachment, the priest smashed each of the spiders into pulp. They were all female, the spiders, and what he did to them was no more than they did to their mates, once the males had served their purpose. The wheel spun, as always, completing the cosmic cycle.
The results of this divination must be taken at once to Emreaves, the High Priest. He might wish to take steps against these intruders into the sanctity of the spider-god's mountain stronghold.
One of the spiders trembled on the altar, probably no more than a nervous spasm, but the priest paused and brought the ceremonial club down upon it with great force. Parts of gut splattered, and the gory effluvia stained his robe, but he took no notice of it. The ceremony was the important thing; a robe could be washed, but a haunting by an illused spider was another thing altogether.
Chapter Ten
Skeer awoke to the muffled sound of a man yelling nearby; in fact, the man making the racket lay sprawled upon the floor of Skeer's unkempt sleeping stall, more or less facedown in the filthy hay. This posture was responsible for the reduced volume of the man's cry, it being difficult to make much noise with a mouthful of compost.
The thief came up from sleep all of a moment. He rolled from his pallet toward the intruder, the point of his knife leading. It was but a second's work for Skeer to grab the fallen man's hair and pull his head back to expose the throat. He laid the edge of his blade against the strangely clean skin. By the thin shaft of morning sun that penetrated the stall through a warped board, Skeer took stock. He recognized the man as the drunk who had occupied one of the other sleeping stalls earlier. The artfully tied fishing line had not failed in its purpose. Now, what was the man about?
Skeer posed the question. "What are you doing in here?"
The odor of the sour wine nauseated him when the man opened his mouth to reply. "Ah, ah, ah, good sir, my lord, I-I, I 'uz just lookin' for-for-"
"Come on, man, spit it out!"
An unfortunate choice of words, it seemed. The drunk started to heave; his mouth opened, and a torrent of stinking liquid gushed forth.
"By Set!" Skeer leaped backward to avoid the rush of vomitus as the drunk continued heaving.
After a moment, the stench in the fetid cell rose to fill every corner, it seemed. Skeer's own belly rumbled at the high odor.
The drunk, smiling, said, "I 'uz in search of the night stall, my lord. Nature called."
"Out!" Skeer yelled. "And mind the line!"
The drunk managed to raise himself to a wobbly stance, and, despite Skeer's warning, tripped over the string across the doorway as he exited. After a moment, he shambled off down the hallway.
Wonderful, Skeer thought. Such a place is this that a drunk mistakes my sleeping room for an outhouse! It was past time to be away from here, of that there was no doubt.
Quickly, Neg's agent went to dig up his treasure.
As Skeer departed from his ill-spent night lodging, an unseen figure stood in the shadows, watching intently. Skeer rounded a corner, out of sight, and the watcher moved into the light, revealing the drunken man who had recently lain upon the floor of Skeer's quarters. Now, however, the man's gaze seemed sharp and unfogged by wine; and, when he moved, his gait revealed only steadiness, with no trace of alcoholic crippling.
The drunk smiled.
A second figure slipped from the shadows, to stand near the drunk. This proved to be the old man who had also occupied a stall in Skeer's most recent quarters. His white hair was no less so, but his manner betrayed the color, as he moved more like a man in his summer than in his winter.
"Get to the High Priest," the ersatz drunk said to the facsimile of an old man. "Tell him I am certain this is the outlander he seeks. He is much too alert for a man with nothing to hide."
"Emreaves will be pleased to hear of this," the other said.
"Go, then. The faster you bespeak it to him, the quicker he will be pleased."
"By your command, Disguise Master. May the Nameless One be with you."
"He can be anywhere he pleases, as long as his priests continue to pay so well."
The High Priest of the Opkothardian Temple of the Spider God With No Name nodded at the message delivered by the man decorated with the skill of the Disguise Master's art. That the man was little more than a novitiate priest, carrying twenty-odd winters, could not be determined from his appearance.
The Disguise Master, while not a True Believer, had his uses. This instance proved to be one of them. Although the message from his Under Priest had only confirmed that which Emreaves had already felt, the exact identity of the man bearing the power-emanating talisman had been less than clear. It was here and someone bore it, that much had been certain; more than that he could only guess at, and such a thing was much too dangerous to risk by mere guessing. He must know, and he must act upon that knowledge before the magical device might be used. The One With No Name frowned upon stray magics in his domain, and it fell to his priests to prevent such powers from coming to fruition.
Emreaves said, "Good. Return and find the Disguise Master. Do as he commands, and bid him to continue his surveillance upon this outlander until I contact him."
The young priest bowed. "My lord."
After the young-man-disguised-as-an-old-one departed, Emreaves left the antechamber and moved to the inner sanctum. There were prayers to be mounted and rituals to be observed, after which he could strike the bearer of the magical device with karmic impunity. It remained only to determine the manner of the outlander's demise, and there would be little difficulty in that: he had so many methods from which to choose . . . .
Conan awoke from a dream in which he had lain with two women, neither of whom could get enough of him. As his eyes caught the faint gleam of morning's first light into the room, he realized that he did indeed lie between two women, and he smiled.
"Pleasant thoughts?" asked Tuanne.
Conan said, "You awaken early."
"I do not sleep in the manner of normal women," she said. "But I thank you for your warmth in the night."
"Gladly given."
To his opposite side, Elashi stirred. For a brief moment, she pressed her full breasts against Conan and draped one leg over his hips. "Mmm," she said. Then, she opened her eyes, stiffened, and quickly pulled away from contact with the big Cimmerian.
"Let us go and find Skeer," Conan said, before Elashi could speak.
"Yes," she said, "we should do that."
Five of the Men With No Eyes stood outside the Tarantula Inn in their dark robes, unspeaking and unmoving. The morning's chill seemed not to bother them, and their breathing made steam-fog in slow and steady patterns. After a moment, the sixth priest emerged from the inn and nodded to the others. Two of the priests moved to cover the inn's front entrance, while two others circled around the back to take up positions behind the back exit. The final two priests reentered the inn. Without pause, they began to ascend the stairs toward the sleeping rooms.
Malo had wasted no time in his search for the barbarian killer. Before first light, he had arisen from his bed of musty wool and begun looking for night workers. He found several: garbage haulers, trulls, and those with insomnia. While Opkothard was a large city, it was not so large that the passage of strangers went unnoticed. Before an hour had passed, Malo knew that a larger barbarian had spent the night in a local inn, accompanied by two women.
Malo spat when he heard this. The man was no doubt spending some ill-gotten loot on painted whores, while laughing over the slaying of two priests. Well. He would laugh no more when Malo finished with him.
Skeer had spotted a likely horse to steal, along with a shop that could supply food and blankets for the remainder of his trip. He need only fetch the supplies-the shop's owner had thoughtfully inscribed his arrival time at his place of business upon the door-jamb, and it would be an hour hence-and be off. By the time anyone knew anything was missing, Skeer the wily would be a long way down the road.
He was just making ready to enter the shop when he felt a sense of being watched.
Skeer had no magical talents, depending instead on his skills for survival; still, this particular sense had saved him more than once, and he was loath to distrust it. Without being obvious, Neg's agent checked his surroundings.
At first, he saw no one. But after a second scan, he spotted the worker. The man seemed to take no notice of Skeer, engrossed as he was in loading manure from a large mound of the same substance into a rude wooden pull-cart. Industriously, the man shoveled, pausing only to wipe his brow on one dirty sleeve.
Skeer considered his position. True, the manurist could see him, but certainly seemed to have no interest other than his labor; and the man had nothing of the familiar about him-Skeer deemed it certain he had never seen him before; still, that crawly feeling persisted. Perhaps there existed some unseen watcher, peering from behind a blind or curtain. Perhaps even some magical ward protected the shop's interior?
Skeer shook his head. No, this no longer seemed such an easy victory. He decided to seek another target.
He walked away from the shop front, past the manure loader, who never looked up at him.
You seek shadows where none exist, Skeer told himself. But he did not turn back toward the shop.
Conan had just buckled his sword sheath around his waist when the door to the room burst inward and slammed against the wall. Two men stepped inside and looked directly at Tuanne.
At least they pointed their noses in her direction. For Conan could see that their eyes held only blank grayness where other men had pupils.
Tuanne's reaction consisted of a catlike hiss. She backed up two steps, until her back met the wall and she could go no farther.
Conan said, "Tuanne?"
"Neg's men," she said, "come for me! They are called Men With No Eyes."
Conan's sword sang its song of steel and leather as he whipped the blade free of its sheath. "They will soon be called the men with no heads, do they not depart!"
The two men turned to face the Cimmerian.
"They are dangerous, Conan! Deadly!"
"They are not even armed," Conan observed aloud.
"There is no need. They are skilled and abnormally strong!"
"We shall see how skilled and strong they are. You," he said to the priests, "leave my room, now!"
The men moved away from each other, as if to encircle Conan.
The Cimmerian youth gripped his sword in both hands, fingers loose, and aimed the point of his weapon at the chest of the nearer man.
To Conan's left, Elashi drew her blade and turned so she covered his left side. To his right, Tuanne picked up the earthen water pitcher and held it over her head, as if to throw it. Conan grinned. By Crom, to have two women who would fight . . . Well, a man could hardly do better!
The first priest moved, and his speed surprised Conan. He leaped in, kicked at Conan's knee, and leaped back, all before the muscular Cimmerian could swing his blade. He did manage to shift his leg, so that the knee-strike only thudded against a thick thigh instead. Even so, the force of the kick shoved Conan half afoot backward.
So. Tuanne's assessment of the men had not been in error. They were both fast and strong. Then again, Conan was no weakling.
"Haah!" the Cimmerian screamed and charged, blade cocked over his shoulder.
Fast he might be, and strong, but the attacker had only as much space to maneuver as the room allowed, and it allowed little. When he would have danced lithely backward, the wall refused him passage. Conan's blade came down, set to shear the man open from skull to crotch.
Amazingly, the blind man twisted to one side. He was good. But not good enough to avoid the sword's edge entirely. Sharpened iron met the flesh of his arm, and the sword hardly paused in its passage. The arm flew from its owner.
He was not done, this one-armed one. He spun in a short circle and thrust out his bare heel. The kick caught Conan in the pit of the belly and knocked him backward.
"Oof!"
Though corded with muscle, the strike still hurt Conan's midsection enough to draw from him the expletive.
The priest made an error then, by trying to follow up. Conan was not injured greatly, and when the Man With No Eyes leaped in, swinging his remaining arm, he was skewered like a bird on a spit. Even in death he made no sound, as he sagged.
The second attacker, busy trying to grab Tuanne, had troubles of his own. First, the zombie woman tossed the water pitcher at him. When he raised his arm to ward it off, Elashi darted under his guard and sliced across his ribs with her sword. It was not a deadly cut, but it was messy; blood welled and spattered as he leaped backward.
Before the man could recover, both Conan and Elashi moved in, thrusting with their blades almost in unison. Conan's stab took the man in the throat, Elashi's in the belly. He fell, mortally injured.
"So much for them," Conan said.
"There will be others," Tuanne said, out of breath. "Neg would never send just two. We must leave quickly!"
Aye, Conan would favor that. These two had been much too quick to suit him.
They started down the stairs.
Malo arrived at the inn bearing the likeness of a spider on its front. A pair of men stood to the sides of the door, watching intently. At least it seemed that way, until he got closer. He shuddered. Unlikely they watched anything with those eyes!
But his quarry lay within, and he was in no mood to be delayed.
"Ho, friends. I would enter the inn."
The two men turned as one to stare sightlessly at him.
Hmm. Perhaps it would be better to wait for the barbarian to exit . . . ?
Less than three heartbeats later, the barbarian did so, at a run. As fast as the two door-watchers moved, Conan was past them before they could react. More, the damned barbarian had with him the women of whom Malo had heard.
>
The Suddah Oblate reached for his sword.
His muscles warmed by his earlier exertions, Conan's reactions now were speeded up. He whipped his sword around in a short arc in time to catch the lunging blind attacker squarely on top of the head.
It truly was a fine blade, Conan thought, as the flesh and bone bisected neatly.
The second blind one gave out a piercing whistle, and Conan's instant feeling was that the sound was a signal. Best they depart, quickly!
He turned toward the whistler and began swinging his sword back and forth in snappy cuts, moving forward. "Stay behind me," he commanded Elashi and Tuanne.
The attacker had no choice but to give ground, and he did so as Conan wove a path away from the inn.
Malo moved for Conan. Just then, two more of the strange-eyed men stormed around the side of the inn. They became aware of Malo, and mistakenly thought him an enemy, for they moved toward him.
Malo bore these two no ill will; however, their intent seemed plain enough, and he raised his Turanian steel in a defensive pose. "You are mistaken," he said. "I am not with them."
His words seemed to have no effect. One of the men darted toward him, and Malo's automatic reaction was to flick a cut at him. It cost the attacker the better part of his left hand. Malo grinned. This was his first real fight in ten years of training. If these men would take him, why, let them try! He would finish the barbarian later. He shuffled his feet, right, left, right, left, in the economical slide steps he had been taught. Warily, the two blind men moved back.
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