"I must do what I can," Illyana said, shaking her head. "Horror is on the march, and I must do what I can to fight it."
"If it's not close―" Conan began.
"That matters not," Illyana said, drawing herself up with a queen's dignity.
"When I fled from Eremius, I swore to fight Eremius whenever I had the slightest hope of doing so. Now I have more than a hope, if you will give me time, you and Raihna."
She clearly had her mind made up, and Raihna would stay, fight, and if needs be die whether Conan stayed or not. The matter was settled.
"As you wish," Conan said. "Get on with it, while Raihna and I pack what can't be left behind. Dessa, you and Massouf need not come with us. I much doubt they'll blame you―"
"Before this, perhaps not," Dessa said. "But as you said last night―now it's too late. I'll be accused whether I deserve it or not." She grinned wickedly, then stuck out her tongue at Conan.
The soft night wind carried the carrion reek, the growls, the shuffling feet of the Transformed to Eremius. Ears sharpened by magic judged that they were close
to the village's sentries.
Those sentries had not long to live. Doubtless they would not die silently, but that would hardly matter. In fact, their dying would begin the sowing of fear in the village. Enough of that, and Eremius would hardly need to―A horse's scream sundered the night. The Transformed howled in triumph. Raw with fear came a human cry.
"Demons! Demons! The demons are upon us! Fly, fly―yaaaagggh!" as claws and teeth tore the man's life from him.
Eremius allowed himself a frown of displeasure. Had the village contrived to mount their sentries? Or had the Transformed stumbled upon a man riding out on some entirely different matter? Yet once more, Eremius would have sworn to guard Illyana's maidenhood, to have the services of a good war captain at his command!
At least he needed no captain's advice to know that the village had been warned too soon. The villagers would have more time to flee. The Transformed could pursue them only so far before they escaped from Eremius's command.
A village hurled into panic-stricken flight would send a powerful message to would-be allies. A village reduced to rubble and corpses would send one still more powerful.
Eremius raised his staff. For tonight, the Jewel flamed from its head, bound there by a silver ring and carefully-hoarded strands of Illyana's hair. Eremius had proven several times over that the Jewel was not bonded to the ring. He had long known the spells for removing it from the ring and returning it, but tonight was the first time he had removed it for serious work.
Eremius began to chant, calling on every craftsman of ancient Atlantis whose name was known. It was a long list. He then passed on to all the Atlantean gods and demons, a list nearly as long.
One day he would receive a clear sign of who had made or found the Jewels, and what had aided him. Perhaps it would even happen before the other Jewel came into Eremius's hands. For now the sorcerer knew only that this invocation wearied him exceedingly and could make the spell uncertain―or vastly more powerful.
"Chyar, Esporn, Boker―"
Over and over again, more than two-score names of power. As he chanted, Eremius thrust the staff and Jewel alternately to the left and to the right. On either side of him a space in the air began to glow with emerald fire.
The Spell of the Eyes of Mahr could enthrall a dozen men even at its common power. Enhanced, it would hold the village as motionless as the stones of their huts while the Transformed descended upon them.
"Boker, Idas, Gezass, Ayrgulf―"
Ayrgulf was no Atlantean, but he had a place in the history of the Jewels.
History, not legend, named him the first Vanir chief who had possessed the Jewels. More history and much bloody legend told of what befell him, when the Jewels filled him with dreams of power he had no art to command.
History and legend alike would speak otherwise of Eremius the Jewelmaster.
To left and right, the glowing green spheres began to flatten into the oval shapes of immense eyes.
Bora saw the eyes take form as he ran from Ivram's house. As he reached the head of the path downhill, the eyes seemed to stare directly at him.
His legs seemed to have a will of their own, and that will was to turn and flee.
It would be so easy―much easier than descending the path to the doomed village and dying when the demon behind the eyes swooped.
But―what would men say of him? What would he think of himself, for that matter?
Bora had never known before so much of the truth about courage. Little of it was-freedom from fear. Some of it was mastering your fear. A great part was fearing other men's tongues more than whatever menaced you, and the rest was wishing to sleep soundly at night the rest of your days.
Not that he would have many more days or nights if he went down that hill.
Bora descended the four steps Ivram had carved into the rock at the top of the path. As his feet struck bare ground, he realized that the eyes seemed to be following him. Moreover, they were drawing him on down the hill.
He had not fled because he was being ensorceled not to flee! Like a snake charming a bird, the eyes were drawing him, a helpless prey, toward what awaited at the bottom of the hill.
Feet thumped on the stairs behind him. A pungent powder floated about him. ft stung nose and mouth like pepper. Bora's face twisted, he clapped hands over his face, his eyes streamed tears, and he sneezed convulsively.
"Go on sneezing, Bora," came Ivram's voice. "If you need more―"
Bora could not speak, half-strangled as he felt. He went on sneezing until he
feared that his nose might leap from his face and roll down the hill. His eyes streamed as they had not since he wept for his grandfather's death.
At last he could command his breath again. He also discovered that he could command his feet, his senses, his will―"What spell did you put on me, Ivram?" he shouted. The shout set off another fit of coughing.
"Only the counterspell in the Powder of Zayan," Ivram said mildly. "The Spell of the Eyes of Hahr is one of those easily cast on an unsuspecting, unresisting subject. It is just as easily broken by the Powder. Once broken, it cannot be recast on the same subject―"
"I'm grateful, Ivram," Bora said. "More than grateful." In his worst nightmares, he had not imagined that what menaced the village would wield such powers. "But can we help the whole village in time?" He was fidgeting to be off down the hill, half-afraid that the urge to flee would rise again if he waited.
"There is ample Powder. I have been making it since you told me of the demons."
"Then give it to me!"
"Patience, young Bora―"
"Oh, the demons devour patience and you too!
Crimson Springs is dying, priest! Can't your Mitra tell you that much, you―!"
"Bora, never abandon patience. I was about to say, that many in the village may well have been sleeping or had their eyes averted when the Eyes appeared. The spell will not bind them.
"Also, I am going down to the village with you. Two of us casting the Powder―"
"Ivram!" Maryam squalled like a scalded cat. "You're too old to die fighting demons―!"
"Life or death are in Mitra's hands, sweetling. No one is ever too old to pay a debt. Crimson Springs has sheltered us for many years. We owe them something."
"But―your life?"
"Even that."
Bora heard Maryam swallowing. "I should have known better than to argue with you. Am I losing my power to understand men?"
"Not at all, and Mitra willing, you'll have many years to practice it on me. For now, I'd rather you loaded up the mules. Take the shrine, but don't forget clean clothing in your haste."
Now Bora heard a faint sigh. "Ivram, I've fled in more haste, and from places I was happier to leave. I've had a traveling pack ready since Bora warned us."
"Mitra bless you, Maryam, and keep you safe."
After that Bora heard only an eloque
nt silence. He hastened down the hill, having already heard too much of the farewell for his peace of mind.
Ivram caught up with him halfway down the hill. For the first time Bora saw the man clearly. He carried his staff of office in his right hand and a straight-bladed short sword on his belt. Over his shoulder hung a bag of richly-worked leather, with images of Mitra sewn in semi-precious stones.
"There's enough Powder in this sack to unbind the whole village, if we just have time," Ivram said. "We may. If whoever is casting this spell thinks he has all the time in the world―"
"I once heard Yakoub say that 'if is a word never to be used in war," Bora said.
"In that much, Yakoub is wise," the priest said. "If this is not war, the gods only know what it is." He lengthened his stride, until for all his youth and strength Bora had to strain to keep pace with him.
The Spell of the Eyes of Hahr took all of Eremius's strength and attention.
Unguided, the Transformed milled about short of the village, squabbling over the last scraps of the horse and its rider.
Before those squabbles could turn bloody, their Master took command again. The human guards had already pressed on beyond the village, to cut off the retreat of any not bound by the Eyes. Eremius sent a firm message to them, not to enter the village.
If you do, you are at the mercy of the Transformed, and you know how much of that they possess!
As he finished that message, he heard one of the Transformed howl in rage or pain. Into his mind flooded all it felt―the pain of being struck in the eye by a flung stone. No, by a volley of them, as though a score of men were throwing.
Eremius felt outrage equal to his creation's. There could not be so many people in the village so free of the Eyes that they could throw a straw, let alone a stone! He opened his mind wider, likewise the senses of his body.
His hearing gave him the first clue, and the only one he needed. The streets of Crimson Springs were thronged with people, hurrying away from the Transformed or standing and sneezing violently.
Who among these wretched villagers could know the arcane secret of the Powder of Zayan? Who? He almost screamed the word aloud, at the unsympathetic sky.
It mattered little. Clearly the intruder to the valley some days ago had done more than escape. He had warned the maker of the Powder. Crimson Springs was defended in a way Eremius had not expected.
That also would matter little. If they thought they could fight the Master of even one Jewel, it would be their last mistake.
Eremius cast his mind among the villagers, counting those bound by the Eyes of Hahr. Enough of those, and he could still sow chaos by sending yet another spell into their minds.
Unnoticed by an Eremius intent on his counting, the strands of Illyana's hair binding the Jewel to his staff began to writhe, then to glow with a ruby light.
Twelve
EMERALD LIGHT CREPT around the edge of the door to Illyana's chamber. The light held no heat, but Conan could not rid himself of the notion that he stood with his back to a blazing furnace.
That was still better by far than seeing such magic with his own eyes. He would have refused to do so, even had not Illyana and Raihna both warned him that it was no sight for eyes unaccustomed to sorcery.
"If this seems to be doubting your courage―" Illyana had begun.
"You're not doubting my courage. You're doubting that I'm the biggest fool in Turan. Go do your best with the magic. I'll do my best to keep anyone from ramming a sword through your―" Conan sketched a gesture that made Illyana blush.
The door rattled. Conan took a cautious step away from it. As he did, the innkeeper stamped up the stairs, puffing and red-faced.
"Has your lady witch set my house afire, besides everything else?" the man muttered. He looked as if no answer would surprise him.
"Not that I know," Raihna said. She had clothed herself in trousers and tunic.
The landlord's eyes said this was no improvement over her previous attire.
"Has the cursed spell worked?"
"I don't know that either."
"Mitra and Erlik deliver us! Do you know anything about what's going on in there?"
"As much as you do."
"Or as little," Conan added.
The innkeeper looked ready to kill everyone in sight, including himself. His hands clutched at the remnants of his hair. His bald spot and the rest of his face shone with sweat.
"Well, I know that there's a mob on the way, to burn this inn if your lady witch doesn't!"
Conan and Raihna cursed together. Even Dessa added a few rough jests about some people's manhood.
"If your servants had the courage of lice, no one would have known of our work
until it was done," Raihna snapped. "As it is, I'll be cursed if I let my mistress work in vain."
Her hand darted toward her sword but Conan halted her draw. "No reason to harm this man. He did warn us."
"That won't save us if the mob gathers before we can flee," the swordswoman replied.
"No, but our friend can do more." Conan turned to the innkeeper. "I much doubt this inn has no hiding places or secret ways out. Keep the mob out until Illyana's done, let us use the secret way, and we'll make it seem you were our prisoner. If they think you're afraid of us―"
"They'll know the gods' own truth!" the man blurted. "I don't know why I'm doing this. Really I don't."
"Either you're too brave to betray guests or too cowardly to want your throat slit," Raihna said. "I care little. Now go downstairs and do your work while we finish ours!"
"Yes, and have some food sent up," Conan added. "Cold meat, bread, cheese―travelers' fare."
"I'll do my best," the innkeeper said, with a shrug. "If the cooks haven't all run off as well!"
From inside the house a child screamed like a mad thing. Bora tried the door and found it locked.
"To me! Zakar, try your axe!"
The village woodcutter was one of the first men Bora had freed with the Powder.
His head was clear and his body at his command. He came running, swinging an axe as if he would cleave not just the door but the house.
A few strokes shattered the door. Bora and Zakar dashed inside. Bora snatched up the abandoned child, to find it a girl unhurt but witless with fear. As he ran to the door, he saw a basket of bread and smoked goat meat, also left behind in the family's panic.
"Zakar, take that as well. The gods only know where we'll next eat."
"Not in this world, likely enough," Zakar replied, shouldering his axe. "But I won't go alone, because my friend here will eat first. I don't care if we face every demon in creation. There's no demon can do much harm with his skull split!"
Bora could only hope Zakar was right. Something was holding back the demons from the village, giving its people a reprieve. Most of them were now free of the spells and fleeing west. Could they flee far enough before the demons were unleashed again? Bora knew how fast the demons could cover ground.
Outside, Bora looked for someone to care for the child. It was a long search, for the village was now all but deserted. Those who remained were more likely to be held by fear than by magic, and against that the Powder had no strength.
At last two girls a trifle younger than Caraya appeared, leading an aged man between them. "Here," Bora said without ceremony. The little girl began squalling again as she was handed over, but Bora took no heed.
"Your own home's not far now," Zakar said. "We could be there and back before
anyone missed you."
"Ivram said he freed them at once." Everything in Bora cried out to be Rhafi's son and not the village's leader, just for a little while. "What he did will have to be enough."
"The gods keep me from―what in Mitra's name is that?"
A cloud of dust danced at the far end of the street, where the village gave way to orchards. Out of the dust loped a stooped figure, a monstrous caricature of a man. In the green light its thick limbs shimmered.
One of thos
e arms snatched at a branch. Thick as Bora's arm, the branch snapped like a twig. A second branch armed the demon's other hand. Brandishing both clubs, it broke into a shambling run.
Zakar met it halfway down the street. One club flew into the air, chopped in half by the axe. The second swung. It crashed into Zakar's ribs as his axe came down on the demon's head.
Came down, and bounced off. Not without effect― the demon staggered, and Bora saw blood run. But without slaying―or saving Zakar. One clawed hand drove into his belly and ripped upward. He barely had time to scream before the demon's fangs were in his throat.
The demon threw the dying woodcutter down and looked about for fresh prey. For a moment Bora would gladly have sold his whole family for a spell of invisibility.
Then heavy footsteps thudded behind him. A robed arm flung a small clay vial down the street. It landed at the demon's feet, shattering and spraying the Powder of Zayan.
"I don't know if it will work against whatever spells bind those―creations,"
Ivram muttered. "A good pair of heels might work better."
"But―there must be―"
"Only the gods can help them now," Ivram said. "Your kin are safe. The village needs you as a live leader, not a dead memory!"
"As you wish," Bora said. He recognized in his own voice the same note he'd heard in the priest's. They both spoke lest chattering teeth otherwise betray their fear. The demon was kneeling, snuffling at the Powder on the ground, as they turned and ran for the other end of the village.
With a sharp ping, the strands of Illyana's hair parted. The Jewel arched down from the head of Eremius's staff.
Never in all his years of sorcery had Eremius cast a spell so quickly. The Invisible Hand gripped the Jewel halfway to the ground and lowered it the rest of the way as lightly as a feather.
To slow his heart and breathing, Eremius told himself that the Jewel would not have shattered in a fall from such a height. The message accomplished nothing.
Heart and lungs knew that it was a lie. He had contrived a narrow escape from disaster as well as defeat.
He reached for the Jewel, to rebind it with strands of his own hair. His fingers seemed to strike invisible glass a hand's breadth on all sides of the Jewel. He prodded the barrier with his staff, and felt the same sensation.
The Conan Compendium Page 299