The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  "Captain Shamil resists this, of course?" Khezal said.

  "Yes, Captain."

  "Well, it seems we have duties too, Captain Conan. Shall we go down and do them?"

  Conan followed Khezal. Yakoub was a mystery but not a menace. He could wait.

  Captain Shamir and his follies were no mystery but a dire menace. They could not.

  Yakoub would gladly have run like a fox, to escape the eyes of that Cimmerian wolf. By the utmost effort of will, he held his feet to a brisk walk until he was out of Conan's sight.

  Then he ran most of the way back to the improvised camp of the villagers and dog-trotted the rest. On passing the sentries, he went straight to Bora's fam-ily.

  "I greet you, Mother Merisa."

  "Where is Bora?"

  "He will march with the soldiers. All those not fit to fight are returning to Fort―"

  "Aiyeee! Is it not enough that the gods have taken my Arima and may take my husband? Will they tempt Bora to his doom also? What will become of us without him?"

  Merisa clutched the two youngest children to her as she wailed. She did not weep, however, and in a minute or so was silent, if pale. Yakoub was about to ask where Caraya was, when he saw her returning from the spring with a dripping waterskin.

  "Yakoub!" Burdened as she was, she seemed to fly over the ground. Merisa had to snatch the waterskin to safety as Caraya flew into Yakoub's arms.

  When they could speak again, they found Merisa regarding them with a mixture of fondness and indignation. Yakoub's heart leaped. Now, if Rhafi would be as kindly disposed toward his suit, when he was free―"Yakoub, where is Bora?"

  "Your brother is so determined to prove himself to the soldiers who took away his father that he will march with them tonight," Merisa said.

  Yakoub nodded. "We tossed pebbles, to see who would go and who would not. Bora won the toss." He prayed this lie would not be found out. If the gods ever allowed him to wed Caraya, he would never again tell her a lie.

  "A good thing, then, that I went for the water," Caraya said practically. "If the younglings can go to the jakes, we'll be ready to march."

  Yakoub kissed Caraya again and blessed the gods. They had sent good blood to both Rhafi and Merisa, and they had bred it into their children. Saving such a man was a gift to the land. Marrying his daughter was a gift to himself.

  Eremius raised both staff and Jewel-ring to halt the mounted scout. The man reined in so violently that his mount went back on its haunches. Forefeet pawing the air, the horse screamed shrilly. The messenger sawed desperately at the reins, his face showing the same panic as his mount.

  The sorcerer spat. "Is that how you manage a horse? If that is your best, then your mount is only fit to feed the Transformed and you hardly better."

  The scout went pale and clutched at the horse's neck, burying his face in its ill-kept mane. The release of the reins seemed to calm the frantic beast. It gave one final whinny, then stood docilely, blowing heavily, head down and foam dripping from its muzzle.

  Eremius held the staff under the scout's nose. "I would be grateful if you would tell me what you saw. I do not remember sending you and your comrades out merely to exercise your horses."

  "I―ah, Master. The soldiers come on. Soldiers and the fighters of the village."

  "How many?"

  "Many. More than I could count."

  "More than you cared to count?"

  "I―Master, no, no―!"

  The Jewel blazed to life, flooding the hillside with emerald light dazzling to

  any eyes not shielded by sorcery. With a scream, the scout clapped both hands over his eyes. The movement unbalanced him, and he toppled from the saddle, to thump down at Eremius's feet.

  Eremius contemplated the writhing man and listened to his cries and wails. The man seemed sure he was blinded for life.

  Capturing a few horses in the village and saving them from the Transformed now seemed a small victory. The horses could move farther and faster than the Transformed, save when Eremius was using the Jewel to command his creations. The Jewel seemed less self-willed of late, but save when rage overwhelmed him, Eremius continued to be prudent in using it.

  As always, however, the human servants he could command with only a single Jewel lacked the resourcefulness, courage, and quick wits heeded for scouting. They were better than using the Jewel promiscuously, wearying the Transformed, or marching in ignorance. No more could be said for them.

  Eremius allowed the Jewel's light to die and raised the scout to his feet. "How many, again? More than a thousand?"

  "Less."

  "Where?"

  "Coming up the Salt Valley."

  Eremius tried to learn more, but the man was clearly too frightened of blindness to have his wits about him. "By my will, let your sight―returnl"

  The man lowered his hands, realized that he could see, and knelt to kiss the hem of Eremius's robe. The sorcerer took a modest pleasure in such subservience. He

  would a thousand times rather have had Illyana kneeling there, but a wise man took those pleasures that came to him.

  At last he allowed the man to rise and lead his horse away. Forming a picture of the countryside in his mind, Eremius considered briefly where to send the Transformed. Victory would not really be enough. The utter destruction of everyone marching against him would be better.

  Could he achieve that destruction? The Transformed were neither invulnerable nor invincible. Enough soldiers could stand them off. Still worse might happen, if Illyana (or the Jewels themselves, but he would not think of that) struck back.

  The Transformed had to be able to attack together, and retreat together. That meant attacking from one side of the valley―

  Bora was kneeling to fill his water bottle at a stream when he heard voices. He plugged the bottle and crept closer, until he recognized the voices.

  A moment later, he recognized a conversation surely not meant for his ears. An argument, rather, with Lady Illyana, Shamil, and Khezal arrayed against one another.

  "My lady, if you're sure the demons are coming, why don't you use your magic against them?" Shamil was saying.

  "I am not complete master of all the arts that would be needed." As if it had been written across the twilight sky, Bora understood that the lady was telling less than she knew.

  "You mean you don't have any arts worth more than pissing on the demons, if

  there are any!" Shamil growled. "All we'd have is a lot of shrieking and dancing that'd scare the men." He contemplated Illyana in a manner Bora recognized even in the fading light. "Of course, if you were to dance naked, it wouldn't matter what else you did."

  Bora hoped that Illyana really did have the power to transform Captain Shamil into a pig. From the look on her face, she wished the same. Khezal sought to play peacemaker.

  "Captain, if Lady Illyana needs privacy, she needn't stay in the middle of the column. I can take a troop back a ways, to guard her while she works. Or Captain Conan can take some of the villagers―"

  Shamil spat an obscenity. "The villagers would run screaming if Lady Illyana sneezed. And I won't spare any of our men. What do you think this is, the Royal Lancers? We'll set sentries and build watchfires as usual, and that's the end of it. You do anything more without my orders, and you go back to Fort Zheman under arrest."

  "As you command, Captain."

  Shamil and his second in command walked away, stiff-backed and in opposite directions. Bora was about to creep away, when he heard more people approaching.

  He lay still, while Conan and Raihna emerged into the glow of the fire. The woman wore short trousers, like a sailor's, that left her splendid legs half-bare. The Cimmerian wore nothing above the waist, in spite of the chill upland air. Illyana, Bora realized, had tears in her eyes. Her voice shook as she gripped Conan by one hand and Raihna by the other.

  "Is there nothing we can do about Captain Shamil?"

  "Watch our backs and hope the demons will come soon to keep him busy," Con
an said. "Anything else is mutiny. Bad enough if we do it, twice as bad if Khezal does it. We split the men, and we're handing the demons' master victory all trussed up and spiced!"

  "You listen too much to lawbound men like Khadjar and not enough to―"

  "Enough!" The one word from Conan silenced Illyana. After a moment, she nodded.

  "Forgive me. I―have you never felt helpless in the face of danger?"

  "More often than you, my lady, and I'd wager more helpless too. Mutiny is still mutiny."

  "Granted. Now, if I can have my bedding―?"

  "Not your tent?" Raihna asked.

  "I think not. Tonight a tent is more likely a trap than a protection."

  "I'll pass that on to anyone who'll listen," Conan said.

  The talk turned away from matters Bora felt he needed to know. Staying low, he crossed the stream, then trotted back to the camp of the villagers.

  Bora now led only the men of Crimson Springs, and Gelek of Six Trees had done everything necessary by way of posting sentries and the like. With a clear conscience if an uneasy mind, Bora wrapped himself in his blankets and sought the softest rocks he could find.

  Sleep would not come, though, until he swore a solemn oath. If Captain Shamir's folly slew the men he led, and the gods spared the man, Bora would not.

  Unless, of course, the Cimmerian reached Shamil first.

  Seventeen

  CONAN HAD SLEPT little and lightly. Now he inspected the sentries under a star-specked sky. Somewhat to his surprise and much to his pleasure, he found them alert. Perhaps Khezal's discipline counted for more than the laxness of Captain Shamil. Or did the ghosts of comrades dead in vanished outposts whisper caution?

  Toward the end of his inspection, Conan met Khezal on the same errand. The young officer laughed, but uneasily; Illyana's warning was in both their minds. Even without it, Conan had the sense of invisible eyes watching him from deep within the surrounding hills.

  "Let us stay together, Captain," Khezal said. "If you inspect the men with me, none will doubt your authority. Except Shamil. He would doubt the difference between men and women!"

  "I'll wager your friend Dessa taught him better!"

  "She's hardly a friend of mine."

  "I've never seen a woman look at an enemy the way she looks at―"

  "Captains!" came a whisper from beyond the campfire. "We've seen something moving on the crest of that hill." Conan saw a soldier, pointing with his drawn sword into the night.

  Conan stepped away from the fire and stared into the darkness until his eyes

  pierced it. The sky held no moon, but as many stars as he had ever seen. On the crest of a hill to the south of the camp, something was indeed obscuring the stars. More than one, indeed, and all of them moving.

  The Cimmerian drew his sword. Khezal sought to stop him. "Conan, we may need you―"

  "You do indeed need me, to scout that hill. There's no demon yet conjured who can outfight a Cimmerian. Or outrun him, if it comes to that."

  He left no more time for argument, but stalked away into the darkness.

  Eremius sat cross-legged atop a boulder on the far side of the valley from his Transformed. With the Spell of Unveiling, he could see them crouching, ready to swoop upon the soldiers like hawks upon quail. He also saw one man already climbing the hill toward the Transformed, as if eager to embrace his doom.

  Eremius would do nothing to deny the man his last pleasure.

  Looking toward the head of the valley, he sought a glimpse of the human fighters sent there. He saw nothing. Had the men lost their way, gone too far, or merely found places to hide in until they saw the Transformed attacking? It would do little harm if the humans stumbled on the villagers―at least little harm to Eremius's cause. What it would do to the villagers was another matter.

  It would still be better if the men could take the soldiers in the rear, as Eremius planned. With the Transformed on one side and the humans in their rear, the soldiers would feel themselves mightily beset.

  With Eremius's spells on the other side, they might well feel themselves

  surrounded. Oh, they would have one road open, one that led into a waterless wilderness of hills. They would learn this only too late, and at the same time they would also learn that the Transformed were on their trail.

  Eremius contemplated the coming hours with a pleasure almost as great as he could have gained from contemplating a suppliant Illyana. If his plan gained the victory it deserved, perhaps he would have no need of a captain for his wars. A few underlings, to spare him the tedious work of training the men, but none to command in battle. He would be equal to that task himself!

  Eremius scrambled down from the boulder and stepped behind it, then drew the Jewel from its pouch. It would be best if he began the necessary spells now.

  They gave off a trifle of light, though, and for a little while longer the soldiers would not have a horde of demons to draw their attention.

  The staff resting against the boulder quivered, straightened, then floated into its master's hand. Three passes of the silvered head over the Jewel, and Eremius stood in a circle of emerald light as wide as he was tall.

  He thrust the staff into the ground and began to chant softly.

  Conan mounted the slope standing upright. Haste was needed. Also, it was for once desirable that he be seen by the enemy, perhaps to draw them into attacking too soon. He trusted Bora's judgment that the demons did not know archery.

  Halfway up the hill, Conan scrambled to the top of a large flat boulder that let him see in all directions. The crest of the hill now seemed empty of movement.

  He would not have sworn that all the rocks on that crest had been there at

  sunset, but none moved.

  Lighted torches did move in the camp. Conan saw two men joining the nearest sentry post, then two more. Had Khezal awakened his captain over this reinforcing of the sentry posts, or was he leaving the man to dreams of Dessa?

  The hills on the north side of the valley were lower than those on Conan's. The Cimmerian could look down upon the crests of several. On one, he saw a faint glow, more like a dying campfire than anything else. He watched it, waiting for it to fade.

  Instead it grew brighter. Nor had Conan ever seen coals glowing with the emerald hue of the Jewels of Kurag.

  Conan realized he had made a mistake, climbing the hill alone. With a companion, he could have sent a silent warning to the camp, that the magic of the Jewels was about to be unleashed. Alone, he could only alert both sides at once.

  "Camp ho! Magic at work on the crest of the white hill! This is Conan the Cimmerian!" He turned toward the crest of his own hill. "You heard me, you spawn of magic and camel dung! Come down and let's see if you have the courage to fight a man who's ready for you!"

  Torches danced in the camp as men began to run. A hum of voices rose, like bees from a disturbed hive. Before Conan heard any reply, he saw the crest of his hill sprout dark shapes. For the space of a single deep breath they remained motionless.

  Then they spread their arms, howled like lost souls, and plunged downhill toward Conan. A carrion reek rode the night breeze before them.

  Nature had given the Cimmerian the art of being able to move backward nearly as fast as he could move forward. Since he had learned that retreating was not always the act of a coward, it had saved his life several times.

  Tonight it did so again. Before the onrush of the demons was well begun, Conan had reached the boulder. He leaped over it and landed on the downhill side. The two foremost demons ran past the boulder, one on either side. Conan slashed at one's legs, with a strength that would have amputated any human leg.

  The demon howled, stumbled, clutched at a gaping wound, but did not fall.

  Instead it came at Conan from the front. In the same moment the Cimmerian sensed the other demon coming at him from behind.

  He leaped clear, felt his feet slip on loose stone, and turned the fall into a roll. He came up in the perfect position
for two quick slashes. One took the second demon in the groin, the other disabled the first one's other leg. Once again Conan would have expected one or both to go down, but drew only howls of agony.

  The demon struck in the groin clapped one taloned hand to its wound. The other lashed out at Conan as he closed, with terrible speed and strength. Conan twisted so that the talons only cut the air. His twisting lent extra force to his riposte. The demon's arm should have flown from its shoulder; instead it only sagged limp and torn.

  Seeing that arm from close at hand, Conan ceased to be surprised at the slight damage he was doing. The arm was armored thickly in overlapping scales. His sword had hewn flesh, but barely touched bone or sinew. As for blood, only now

  was it flowing into the wound.

  Fear swept through the Cimmerian like a gust of winter wind. It was not fear of the demon itself. Hideously transformed though its flesh might be, no flesh could stand up against a well-wielded sword. Archery, too, should have its effect, if the archers' hands were steady and their eyes clear.

  Conan feared the magic that had conjured these creatures into being. It stank of ancient evil, for all that Illyana also used it. Must use it tonight, if the soldiers and villagers were not to die screaming under talons and teeth.

  The demon wounded in the groin now hurried off down the hill, crouching low but moving at the pace of a man walking briskly. The demon with the two disabled legs had finally toppled to the ground. It lay hissing and growling at Conan's feet. Clearly it was past fighting for tonight, and too many demons in rude health had already passed between Conan and the camp.

  He gave the fallen demon one last look, and his stomach writhed as he saw the shape of its groin and chest. Whatever this demon was now, it had been born into the world a woman.

  Conan disliked torturing enemies as much as he disliked killing women. As he passed his sword over the fallen she-demon, he knew it would take an iron will for him to give Eremius an easy death.

  From downhill, the howls of the demons now mingled with the voices of soldiers, shouting the alarm, crying out in fear, or screaming as teeth and talons rent their flesh. Conan looked to either side, then plunged downhill like a boulder unleashed in a land-slide.