The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  "I've heard worse schemes," Conan said. "I'll go as a soldier looking for work.

  You can enter the Hold disguised as a man. Or will that glamouring hold for a whole day?"

  "Not without more effort than I could make and still be fit for other work,"

  Illyana admitted. "I am not using the Jewel for this. Not unless all else fails.

  Together, the Jewels build each other's strength. Apart, each Jewel must be rested between spells."

  "I'll leave the magic to you," Conan said, resting a hand on his sword hilt.

  "Now I'd best find out where the Hold lies. If it's close enough, I can spy it out tonight and return before dawn. If we know beforehand―"

  "Oh, you have no need to trouble yourself, Conan." Illyana's smile held a sensuousness that Conan much doubted was all the glamouring.

  "How is that? Did you read our hostess's thoughts?"

  "Just so. She came by and asked what I wanted in our chambers. While she was close, I read in her thoughts that she would send warning and where she would send it. Then I altered her thoughts. She will send warning only of those who will come to the Hold tomorrow night―you and I."

  "Well and good." That sounded grudging and mean, even to Conan's ears. By Crom, good work was good work, even if a sorceress did it! Why complain about your sword because the smith was loose-living?

  "I'm grateful, Mistress Illyana. Now, let's agree on a place to meet if you must flee this inn. Then I'll be off to the Hold―"

  "You have little need to roam this nighted land, Conan. The innkeeper has been at the Hold. What I took from her mind, I can show you."

  Ice filled Conan's bowels. Put himself at the mercy of a spell reaching into his mind?

  "It is my spell, Conan. Surely you can trust me? And no, I did not read your

  thoughts. You spoke aloud without knowing it."

  "Captain Conan, if I might speak―" began Massouf.

  "Would you care if I said no?"

  Massouf laughed. "It is only that you do not know what you may face there. I am sure Mistress Illyana will do all that she can. But unless she can conjure up dragons and trolls, you will have much hard work. Why not save your strength for it?"

  "I suppose your first post as a free man will be advising King Yildiz on strategy," Conan growled. "There may be some sense in what you say, if our hostess can tell a gate tower from a privy!"

  "Trust her, Conan," Raihna said. "Everything the innkeeper has ever seen, you will see as clearly as if you were there yourself. You can learn enough and still sleep tonight."

  All three of them were right, much as Conan disliked admitting it. Rescuing Dessa at all was crackbrained enough; why make matters worse?

  His eyes met Raihna's, and she smiled. Conan had no art of reading thoughts, but hers were plain on her face. She was not saving his strength entirely for fighting, and as for sleep, she did not intend to allow him much.

  Eight

  GRAVEL RATTLED UNDER the hooves of the hired horses as Conan and Illyana reined

  in before the frowning gate of Achmai's Hold. The stout timbers were yet unweathered and the massive iron hinges showed only a faint tinge of rust.

  Otherwise the ruddy stone walls stood much as they had for centuries. Conan had seen a few of these old bandit-lords' strongholds and heard tales of many. This seemed larger than most. When it rose on the hill, the looting must have been good.

  From a tower to the right of the gate, a voice hailed them.

  "Who comes?"

  "Two soldiers, seeking speech with Lord Achmai."

  "Why should he speak with soldiers?"

  "Does he then hire men unseen and unheard?"

  "You wish to enter his service?"

  "If his service seems fit for us, yes."

  Two heads thrust out of the tower. One was shaven, the other wore an old cavalry' helmet Under the scrutiny, Conan saw unease in Illyana's eyes. He could see nothing else, so thoroughly did her man's garb conceal her. Had he not known she was a woman, he himself would have taken her for a youth.

  "Is this wise?" she whispered. "Speaking as though we do Achmai a favor by seeking his service?"

  "No soldier with pride in his sword does otherwise," Conan assured her. "If I spoke otherwise, they grow suspicious."

  Before Illyana could reply, the voice hailed them again.

  "Enter, and be welcome."

  The size of the courtyard within the walls told Conan that indeed this had once been a mighty fortress. Now the courtyard was half-filled with outbuildings, stout but roughly-built stables, sheds, and. barracks. Only the keep had been restored to its original strength, and the Great Hall to at least some of its original splendor.

  Six men met them in the center of the courtyard. Their arms were well-kept and their clothes clean, if ragged. Their features bore the stamp of more different races than Conan could have numbered on the fingers of both hands.

  "We'll take your horses," one said. He seemed to be mostly a Shemite, with a hint of Vanir in the fairness of his beard.

  "Show us the stable, and we'll lead them there ourselves," Conan said. Like the horses, the saddles were hired. The saddlebags bore certain items best not closely examined.

  The fair-bearded Shemite seemed to hesitate, then shrugged. "As you wish."

  The quick yielding made Conan more suspicious than a long argument. He signed Illyana to stay mounted. The gate was still open. If the worst came, she'd have a hope of flight.

  The Cimmerian swung lithely from his saddle and strode to the head of the horses. As he took the reins, he felt a hand on the hilt of his sword.

  The reins flew from Conan's hands as he whirled. One hand seized the sword hilt and the intruder's hand, imprisoning it as if a boulder had fallen upon it. The

  other hand paused only long enough to clench into a fist. Then it crashed into a beardless jaw. The intruder flew backward to spread-eagle himself on the stones.

  Conan glared down at him. "Learn to keep your hands off other men's swords, my young friend. The next lesson may cost more than a sore jaw."

  Only then did the Cimmerian notice that Fairbeard and the rest were watching him with catlike attention. He almost drew his sword. Then Fairbeard laughed.

  "Well done, my friend. It will be worth Lord Achmai's while to speak with you."

  "That's as may be," Conan said. "Now, what test shall I set him, to be sure it's worth my speaking with him?"

  Again the sky outside held only stars. The men gathered in the Great Hall had better light. Torches blazed in iron sconces along the walls, and lamps filled with scented oil glowed on the high table.

  Lord Achmai grinned at Conan and arranged his oily black beard with a beringed hand.

  "You should have come to me at once, after your old master's death. You'd have been high in my service long since."

  "I had to see the widow and her sister safe to their kin," Conan replied. His fingers were making short work of a fat quail, slow-roasted and stuffed with succulent fruit and herbs. "My oath would have bound me, if common sense had not."

  "Ah yes. You Cimmerians put much stock in your oaths, when you bother to take them."

  Conan knew a chill along his spine. To be recognized as a Cimmerian was not a common experience. Was Achmai playing with him again?

  "Will you tell me that I was mistaken, in calling you Cimmerian?" the man added.

  "If that blood shames you―"

  "Ha! I know my forefathers and kin as well as you do."

  Probably better, in truth. The innkeeper said that Achmai's family had been lords for five generations. Perhaps they had, if one counted lordship of another's kitchen or stables.

  "Doubtless. It is only that one seldom sees a man of your coloring who is not a Cimmerian. And one sees few Cimmerians in Turan."

  "Most of us have the sense to stay at home, where we need not listen to insults," Conan growled, with a grim smile to set Achmai at ease.

  "Well, if you have the greater sense to come
to me, when you have no more duty to your ladies, there will be a place for you. Likewise for your comrade.

  "As for Dessa, whom you sought―-you need seek no further."

  Once more Conan contemplated the serving girls, clad only in nearly transparent trousers with bells on wrists and ankles. Once more he saw none who could be the Dessa Massouf had described.

  Then a drum began a swift, insistent beat, and a girl danced into the room. She wore only a short robe of transparent red silk, and that cut so that it flew out like wings as she whirled. Otherwise she wore only bells, not just at wrists and ankles but at her throat, in her ears, and on a silver chain at her waist. The torchlight played on her oiled skin, sometimes wreathing her in light, sometimes

  revealing her more clearly.

  Back and forth across the room she wove a path of tinkling bells, light, and lush beauty. Conan had seen fairer women, but never one so likely to make a man forget them.

  Her path wove closer to the high table. Closer still―and Achmai's arm shot out like a javelin. The beringed fingers snatched the robe from Dessa's shoulders, waving it like a trophy.

  The men cheered. Dessa grinned and executed a somersault that slapped her feet down on either side of Conan's plate. Then she leaped up, flowed down, and flung her arms around Conan.

  Two perfumed breasts enveloped his face, but his ears were free to hear the roars of laughter. He also caught a glimpse of Illyana. Again he could see only her eyes, but they told him clearly enough that she was in a cold rage. The Cimmerian contemplated what might happen if that rage turned hot.

  Conan wondered if it would have been wiser to come here openly, invoking Mishrak's name to gain Dessa's release. Most likely, disguise had been the best course. Achmai had gold from somewhere far beyond this province, perhaps beyond Turan. He would not enjoy having Mishrak learn where, and he had two-score well-trained and well-armed men to guard his secrets.

  Dessa turned a back somersault off the table, landing on the piled rugs, flaming scarlet and orange with threads of gold woven into their swirling patterns.

  Almost as easily as if she'd risen to her feet, she stood on her hands, waved a foot at the drummer, and began once more to sway to his beat.

  As Dessa's gleaming body blazed against the rugs, Conan felt as if he sat between two blazing hearths.

  A strangled cry burst from Illyana. She leaped up from the table, knocking her plate to the floor. She clutched her wine cup as she fled, but dropped it as she vanished out the door of the Hall. The guards were too bedazzled by Dessa to stop her.

  "What means this?" Achmai said. His voice was even, but his hand was close to his sword hilt. "Is your companion so young he cannot bear the sight of a woman?"

  "Or would he prefer the sight of a man?" shouted someone. "No doubt Pahlos could oblige him―"

  "Oh, bite your tongue out and your cods off," snarled someone else, likely enough Pahlos.

  "Silence!" Achmai roared. His eyes drifted back to Conan.

  "Oh, you will find little to complain of in my companion," Conan said. "Perhaps the flux he had last year is returning. We shall doubtless learn soon enough. If you have any potions―"

  "Oh, we know how to ease the flux," Achmai said. His smile did not reach his eyes. "We also know how to cure liars and fools."

  "You will not need those cures tonight," Conan said, with an ease he did not altogether feel. Erlik take the woman, what is she planning? Or have the wits to plan deserted her now, of all times?

  "I hope not," Achmai said. "Dessa has given us all too much pleasure, to have

  the evening end in a quarrel."

  Dessa had indeed given pleasure. Conan began to doubt that returning the girl to her betrothed was going to be half as simple as he'd expected.

  Dessa knew the power her dancing gave her over men. Knew it and savored it like fine wine. Conan could not imagine her putting all that behind her to settle down as the wife of a clerk and the mother of a pack of squalling brats.

  Well, that was Massouf's problem. Conan had his own, a well-formed one named Illyana. Where had that magic-wielding wench taken herself, and how long would it take before Achmai sent his men in search of her?

  At least Dessa was still dancing. If Achmai ordered his men out of the hall before she stopped, he'd have a mutiny on his hands!

  Dessa's dancing now grew slower, as her strength at last began to flag. She knelt, swaying her torso back and forth until it was almost level and her breasts rose almost straight up. Her belly rippled, her arms curved and recurved, her bells made wicked music, and the light gleamed still brighter as sweat joined the oil on her skin.

  At last she found the strength to execute a final somersault. She landed on her back, feet resting on the high table. Achmai pushed a cup of wine between them.

  The long toes curled, then gripped. Slowly, without spilling a drop, Dessa rocked back on her haunches. Still more slowly, using her hands only for_

  balance, she brought the cup to her lips. Silence as thick as a fog on the Vilayet Sea filled the room.

  Then the silence shattered, as the door guards sprang aside and Illyana

  returned.

  She returned with the glamour upon her, so that she seemed as she had when first Conan saw it. He was proof against the surprise that stunned every man in the room.

  He was not proof against the sensuality wafting like perfume from Illyana's magical image. No woman he had ever bedded had so heated his blood. He gulped wine, and found it odd that the wine did not boil in his throat!

  All this, with Illyana only standing in the doorway. To be sure, she was clad only in a gilded loinguard and a silver ring about her red hair, from which flowed a long red veil. Firm young breasts with rouged nipples, a faintly curved belly, legs that seemed to go on without end―all lay bare to the eye, all glowed with oil or magic or both.

  "You rogue!" Achmai growled. He seemed to be having difficulty breathing, for it was some moments before he could say more. Then he added, "Were you traveling with that?"

  "Kindly refer to the woman as her," Conan said with a broad grin. "Or do you think she is some wizard's creation?"

  "Ah―well, there's magic in her, more than in most women. But―to think of hiding her!"

  "Does a wise man show a purse of gold to a band of robbers?"

  Achmai was too bemused by Illyana to reply for a moment. Conan used that moment to study the room. If Illyana truly needed her maidenhood to work her magic,

  she'd best have ready to hand either mighty spells or a fleet pair of heels.

  "Such a woman―it's an insult to compare her to gold," Achmai said at last.

  Something seemed to be stuck in his throat. He was trying to clear it with wine when Illyana began dancing.

  Clearly there was only Illyana's own suppleness and skill under the glamouring.

  She did not vie with Dessa in somersaults and other feats. Nor did any music follow her, except the beat of the drum when the drummer stopped gaping like a thirsty camel.

  Instead she whirled across the floor, her feet moving too fast for even Conan's eye to follow. She wove a complex path among the rugs, over and around the piles, swaying from head to toe like a blade of grass in a spring breeze. Her head swung from side to side, tossing the veil. Not that it concealed anything even in those rare moments when it hung straight.

  Conan felt his head pounding with more than the fire in his blood and the beat of the drum. He turned his wine cup mouth down and searched for Dessa. She stood by the doorway, ignoring one of the guards' arms resting lightly across her shoulders. She stared at Illyana with the look of a barely-fledged journeyman watching a master display her art.

  Now Illyana bent down, one leg thrust out gracefully for balance, swaying as she gripped a rug. A howl of outrage rose as she lifted the rug and wrapped it around herself from neck to knees. Then it died as she whirled across the room again.

  Far from concealing her movements, the thick rug seemed to make them more
<
br />   provocative. Crimson and wine patches leaped like flames under the thrust of hips and breasts.

  A spearlike thrust of Illyana's head cast the veil aside. It floated across the hall as if a breeze blew it. Conan knew magic lifted it. No one else knew or cared. Tables tilted, spilling their loads, or toppled entirely as men leaped for the veil. A half-score reached it in the same moment. Without drawing steel, they rent it into a piece for each man.

  Or had the veil rent itself, before the men reached it? Conan could not have sworn one way or the other.

  Illyana now essayed a somersault. The rug stayed almost in place. Magic, of a certainty. Again Conan saw none who seemed to either understand or care.

  The headring leaped free of Illyana's flame-hued hair. It rolled across the floor, chiming with an insistent, maddening music, avoiding all the rugs. It rolled almost to Achmai's feet before anyone thought to catch it.

  Before any could move, Achmai's hand snatched up the ring. Conan noted the sureness and grace of the man's movement. He would still be clear of wit and swift of sword if matters came to a fight.

  Then everyone surged to his feet as Illyana cast off the rug and the loinguard in the same movement. The rug rolled itself up as it crossed the floor. The loinguard flew like an arrow to Conan's outthrust hand.

  "Cimmerian, my friend," Achmai said. "I offer you and your―friend―a place in my service. Now, next year, five years from now. What me gods allow me to give you, you shall have!

  "Only―that woman..I want her for a night. Just one night. By all that either of us holds sacred, I will not force her or hurt her. No other shall so much as give her an unseemly look―"

  "I call you friend too," Conan said, laughing. "But I also call you mad, if you think your men will cast no longing looks. Indeed, the lady would be much offended if they did otherwise. Only promise what the gods will allow you to do, and one thing more."

  "Anything―if the gods allow it," Achmai said, without taking his eyes from Illyana's sinuous writhings.

  She now lay on the rugs, describing a serpentine path toward the high table.