The lack of any will to press the fight was becoming plain. Some of the veterans Conan remembered from the evening's drinking appeared, to lead away the wounded and some of those befriending them. As long as they felt their captain's eye on them, however, a few soldiers were determined to make at least the appearance of fighting.
Conan was now prepared to meet and disarm every one of them if it took until dawn. The wine was entirely out of him. Raihna, on the other hand, had worked herself into a fine fighting passion.
"What do we face here, my friend?" she shouted at Conan. "If this is the best Fort Zheman can do, we'll only die from stumbling over their fallen swords!"
Taunted into rage, a man slashed at Raihna. She twisted clear and his rage blinded him to his open flank. Conan's fist took him behind his right ear and he crashed to the floor.
"This will soon pass beyond a jest," Conan said. "I have no quarrel with any of you save your captain and not much with him. He's been led astray―"
"No woman lies to me without paying!" Shamil roared, waving his bandaged arm.
"Who says otherwise?" Conan asked. "But I wonder. Is it Raihna who lied? Or is it someone else?"
Caught off-guard, Shamil let his face show naked confusion for a moment. He could have no notion that he had been overheard, cursing his deceiver. Then the arm waved more furiously.
"The woman lied, and so did this man! They may not be the only ones, but they're here! Avenge the Fort's honor, you fools, if you can't think of mine!"
The veterans, Conan observed, were altogether unmoved by this argument. The recruits were not. Six of them were pushing forward to within sword's reach of the Cimmerian when a voice roared at the foot of the stairs.
"Ho, turn out the guard! Captain to the walls! Turn out the guard! Captain to the walls!"
A leather-lunged veteran mounted the stairs, still shouting. Behind him ran Under-captain Khezal, sword belted on over an embroidered silk chamber robe that left his arms and chest half-bare.
The scars revealed made Conan think anew of the man, for all his silk clothes and scented beard. It was a wonder he still had the use of his arm, or indeed his life. Conan had seen men die of lesser wounds than the one that scarred Khezal's chest and belly.
"What in the name of Erlik's mighty member―?" Shamil began.
"Captain, there's a messenger outside, from Crimson Springs. He says they were attacked by demons last night. Some of the villagers died. Most fled, and are on their way here."
"Demons?" The captain's voice was a frog's croak.
"You'd best go ask him yourself, Captain. I can settle matters here, at least
for now."
Duty, rage, wine, and pain seemed to battle for Captain Shamil. Duty at last carried the field. He stumbled off down the stairs, muttering curses until he was out of hearing.
With a few sharp orders, Khezal emptied the hall of all save himself and Conan.
Raihna had returned to her room, to finish clothing herself. The others still slept or hid.
"Will you keep the peace from now on?" Khezal asked.
"It wasn't us who―" Conan began.
"I don't care a bucket of mule piss who began what!" the man snapped. "We're facing either demons or people in fear of them. Either is enough work for one night. I'll not thank anyone who gives me more."
"You'll have no trouble from us," Conan said. "By my lady's honor I swear it."
Khezal laughed. "I'm glad you didn't swear by your―maid's―honor. That little brazen's been eyeing everyone in the garrison, from the captain on down. I'd ask you to keep her leashed too, if there was any way to do so with such a woman."
"When the gods teach me one, you'll be the first I tell," Conan said.
As Khezal vanished down the stairs, Raihna emerged from her chamber, fully clothed and more than fully armed.
"Is that all the satisfaction we have, being asked to keep peace we didn't break?" Her face twisted, as if she had bitten a green fig.
"It's all we'll have tonight," Conan said. "Khezal's not what I thought him.
He's not on Shamil's side. That's as good as being on ours. Besides, we do
indeed have enough work for one night."
Raihna nodded. "I'll go waken Illyana."
"I'm going down to the gate. I want to hear this tale of demons myself, not what somebody says somebody else said they heard!"
Fourteen
CONAN REACHED THE gate as the messenger from Crimson Springs began the retelling
of his nightmare tale. The Cimmerian heard Kemal tell everything, from Bora's foray into the valley of the demons to the flight of the villagers.
"They'll need shelter when they come," Kemal added.
This messenger could be scarcely more than eighteen. A man, though. Conan remembered what he had survived by the time he was eighteen. War, slavery, escape, treachery, and battles with a score of opponents, human and otherwise.
"Shelter? Here? What do you think we are, the Royal Palace of Turan?" Captain Shamil's temper seemed little improved. "Even if we were, no pack of smelly hillmen will overrun―"
Kemal glared. The captain raised a hand to the archers on the wall. Conan sidled to the left, ready to fling the messenger clear of the arrows. He would happily have flung Shamil over the walls like a dead goat from a siege engine. Had he and his charges not so direly needed peace with Fort Zheman and all in it―"Captain, I'd wager we can bring at least the women and children inside," Khezal
said. He must have conjured his armor on to his body by magic, for he was now fully dressed for the field. His helmet and mail were silvered, but both showed an admirable array of patches and dents.
"We have room," Khezal continued. "Or at least we will, once we have formed a column to march upcoun-try. If we guard their women and children, will the men of the village join us? We shall need guides, and all the stout arms we can find."
Conan observed that Khezal said nothing of the garrison being well under strength. His opinion of the man's wisdom and prudence rose further.
"By Mitra and Erlik, I swear to ask." Kemal swallowed. "I cannot swear that all will follow. If Bora lends his voice, however―"
"We don't need to bribe cowards with our own roof and rations!" Shamil shouted.
It seemed to Conan that, foiled in his designs against Raihna, the captain sought someone to bully.
Conan was equally determined to defeat him. "Are the other villages in the area in flight as well?" he asked Kemal.
"I rode to none, for Bora's orders were to come here at once. I am sure Bora has sent messengers on foot or on lesser horses than Windmaster to all he thinks in danger."
"Mitra! We are to follow the whims of a stripling, who may be mad or a traitor for all I know. Indeed, isn't he the son of the Rhafi who lies in Aghrapur, suspected of―"
"Rhafi is innocent of everything except quarreling with your greedy louts of
soldiers!" Kemal shouted. His hand leaped to the hilt of his knife. Shamil's hand rose to signal the,archers.
Neither hand completed its motion. Conan gripped both wrists and twisted, until he had the complete attention of both men.
"Are you demons in disguise, or what? If there are demons, we're fools to fight among ourselves. If there are none, something besides too much wine is frightening people!"
"Exactly so," Khezal said, like a mother seeking to calm fractious children. A second glance told Conan that the man was balanced and ready to draw his sword, against whoever might need it.
"If all the villages come down, we can pick the best men to march with us. The rest can help garrison the fort, or escort those who travel on to Haruk."
"They'll find scant hospitality in Haruk, after last night's riot," Shamil said.
"Scanter here, though, unless we feed them all the rations we'll need for the march." He shrugged. "Do as you wish, Khezal. You speak with my voice. I go to see to my armor and horses."
The captain turned away. Before he could depart, a dulcet voice
spoke up.
"Captain, permit me to help you. I know it is not easy to garb oneself with a wounded arm. I have some experience in helping men in such trouble."
It was Dessa, standing between and slightly in front of Illyana and Raihna.
Massouf stood behind the women, wearing trousers and a ferocious look. The girl wore an ankle-length robe, but, Conan judged, not a stitch under it. Certainly Shamil could not have been staring at her more intently had she been naked.
Then he smiled. "Thank you―Dessa, is it not? If you will help me arm, I have some wine too fine to jounce about in a saddlebag. We can share it before we march."
"All I can do for you, shall be done." Dessa said. She slipped her arm through Shamil's and they walked off together. Massouf's glare followed them, and the man himself would have done so but for Conan's grip on his arm and Raihna's dagger pointed at his belly.
"You filthy panderers," Massouf hissed, struggling vainly to escape the Cimmerian's iron grip.
"We send Dessa nowhere she does not gladly go," Raihna replied.
Conan nodded. "Use your wits and not your tool, Massouf. The gods made Dessa a free-spirited wench. You won't make her a .quiet little wife. There's a woman somewhere fit for that, if you really want her. Spend your time seeking her, not trying to change Dessa."
Massouf shook himself free and stalked off, muttering curses but at least traveling in the opposite direction to Dessa and Shamil. Khezal looked after him.
"I'll have a watch kept on that young man," he said. Conan grinned. Khezal was probably a year or more younger than Massouf, but seemed old enough to be his father. "Best you keep a watch on your own backs, too. At least until Captain Shamil's been so well bedded he'll not be thinking of women for a while."
"Dessa's the one to do that," Raihna said.
"I believe you," Khezal said. "She puts me in mind of a younger Pyla."
"You know Pyla?" Conan exclaimed.
"Did she never speak of the young officer she spent a week with, last year?"
Khezal's scarred chest seemed to swell with pride and pleasurable memory.
"No. She's never been one to bed and brag. But if she endured your company for a week―" Conan made a parody of the court bow.
Khezal nodded, his smile fading. He stepped closer to Conan and said, voice pitched barely above a whisper, "In truth―what are you? I'll not say you told us tales without reason, but…"
"Raihna?" Conan said.
The swordswoman nodded and drew from between her breasts the coin badge of Mishrak's service. Khezal studied it for a moment, then nodded again, his face still more sober.
"As well you told us tales. Nor will I tell the captain, unless it's life or death. I've heard things of him―no, I'll hold my peace on that, too, unless it's life or death. But I would ask you to give whatever help you can, all three of you. We're scantily supplied with leaders even for the trained men. With the recruits and Mitra knows how many villagers thrown in…"
"We'll help," Conan said. "I've served―the owner of that coin―just long enough to want a good fight, sword in hand!"
By night, stonefire could be turned to any color, none, or a hideous travesty of a rainbow. It all depended on the spell.
Eremius chose a spell that would make the stonefire in Winterhome not only
colorless but invisible. Until he felt the heat, anyone who wandered close would have no idea what he faced. If he drew back in time and fled, he would flee with his mind reeling with fear and run until his body reeled with exhaustion.
The more fear, the better. Too many villagers had already fled beyond the reach of the Transformed. Only fear would keep them fleeing, until they brought the garrison of Fort Zheman out to destruction. Then the land would be defenseless and the villagers could be rounded up at leisure. Their fear would feed what the Transformed used in place of souls, before their flesh fed the Transformed's hunger.
Eremius held his staff at waist height and swept it in a half-circle, across the whole front of the village. Five times he stopped the movement. Each time, a globule of stonefire leaped from its head, soared across the hillside, and plunged into the village. Each globule glowed briefly, then settled down to invisibly devour all in its path.
By dawn Winterhome would be smoking rubble like Crimson Spring. So would the other three villages denuded of their inhabitants by fear of the Transformed.
Eremius turned and snapped his fingers at his Jewel-bearer. The prisoner had knelt throughout the firecasting, eyes wandering mindlessly. Nor had Eremius called on the power of the Jewel. He had mastered stonefire years before he had touched either of the Jewels of Kurag.
The prisoner now lurched to his feet. Then his eyes rolled up in his head and he began to toss his arms and flap his hands. Like some impossibly clumsy bird, he actually rose a finger's breadth into the air. Eremius raised his staff in front
of him and hastily gave ground.
The Jewel-bearer rose higher. Smoke boiled from either edge of the great arm ring. The stench of burning flesh assaulted Eremius. Only iron will kept him from spewing like a woman newly with child.
The Jewel-bearer now floated a man's height above the ground. His mouth gaped so wide that it seemed his jaws could hardly remain in their sockets. His eyes had turned the color of sour milk.
Suddenly his body arched, lungs and chest and mouth together hurled out a single gurgling scream, and the Jewel-ring burned through the arm holding it. It clattered to the rocky ground. Eremius's heart seemed to leap from his breast in the moment before he saw that the Jewel was intact. He knelt and hooked the ring clear of danger with his staff.
Barely had he done this when the Jewel-bearer crashed to the ground. He sprawled as limp as an eel, every bone in his body save for the severed arm seemingly broken. Eremius hastily left off his prodding of the Jewel-ring and once more gave ground.
Only when he saw the man still dead and the Jewel still intact did he approach either. Not for some minutes after that did he venture to pick up the Jewel.
Some minutes after that, he found courage to call his human servants to attend.
As they scrambled up the hill toward him, he contemplated the Jewel glowing on the ground at his feet. All sorcerers who knew of the Jewels also knew the tales of what they had seemingly done (and whom they had seemingly slain) of their own will.
Eremius was no exception. Until tonight, like most sorcerers, he had also believed the tales were mostly that. Now he wondered. Had Illyana contrived the fate of the Jewel-bearer, he would have sensed her efforts, perhaps defeated them. He had sensed nothing.
What did soldiers do, when they found their swords coming alive in their hands?
Eremius doubted that even such as Khadjar would be equal to that question.
By dawn Conan had finished his work. The last pack mule had been loaded with ration bread and salt pork and led to the corral just beyond the north gate.
The Cimmerian broke his fast with wine and a stew of onions and smoked goat's meat. Time enough to burden his belly with field rations! As he poured a second cup of wine, he considered how little he would have cared for his present work a few years ago.
Cimmerian war bands could live off the land for a month. Conan had despised the men of civilized lands for needing to bring food with them. Khadjar and experience alike had taught him the error of that.
Illyana took shape out of the grayness, so subtly that for a moment Conan wondered if she'd come by magic. At the look on his face, she laughed softly.
"Fear not, Conan. I use no arts where they might put men in fear. I would ask you, though―have you seen anyone wandering about as if mazed in his wits?
Besides Captain Shamil?"
"Ha! That's nothing to what he'll be, when Dessa lets him out of bed!" Conan frowned. "Not that I can remember. But I've had other work at hand, and in the
dark it's enough to tell man from woman!"
"Ah well. You and Raihna were the only ones I could ask, except perhaps Khe
zal.
Raihna had seen no one."
Conan sensed an explanation forthcoming, if he would give Illyana time to find the words for it. He hoped she would be swift. The column had to be on the road before midmorning, to have the smallest hope of reaching the villagers before the demons did.
"You are right to suspect a plot last night. Someone sought to enter my chamber and steal the Jewel."
"None of us heard any sound."
"You were not expected to. I contrived a spell in the Jewel, to make whoever entered my chamber lose all memory of why he came. He might not have regained all his wits yet. He was confused enough to leave this ring."
She held out a ring of finely-wrought silver, but Conan had never seen it on the hand of anyone in the fort. He shook his head.
"Why not contrive a spell to kill or stun him?"
"Conan, I think as do you and Raihna. The fewer who know what I truly am, the better. Not even Khezal has been told, has he?"
"No. But I'd not wager a cup of poor wine on his remaining ignorant. That's a very long-headed man we'll have leading us."
"Two long-headed men, Conan. If Khezal allows you to do all you can, as he must if he's no fool."
Conan smiled politely at the flattery, but no more. He sensed things still
unspoken, and perhaps best left so. Except that if you went ignorant into battle you might as well cut your throat beforehand and save your enemies the trouble―"I did work another spell. It was to make the Jewel hold a picture of who sought to steal it. From that picture, I could have recognized the man at a glance."
"That would have meant revealing your powers, but I suppose one less enemy is never a bad thing. Am I to take it that the spell didn't work?"
Illyana colored slightly. "It did not. I thought I was past making such a foolish mistake. I believe I am. Yet the spell was not wrought as I intended.
Was it my failure―or the Jewel's own will?"
The dawn sky seemed to darken and the dawn wind grow cold. No gesture of aversion Conan could think of seemed adequate. He emptied his cup at a gulp, poured it full again, and held it out to Illyana. After a moment, she took it.
Although she only seemed to sip, when she handed the cup back it was two-thirds empty.
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