“An you betray me,” she whispered, “I’ll put your head before my tent on a spear. I’ll … ah, Derketo.” For a time she made no sounds that came not unbidden to her lips.
XII
The private thaumaturgical chambers of Amanar were in the very top of the tallest tower of the keep, as far from the room of sacrifice as they could be and still remain within that dark fortress. He knew that Morath-Aminee was in no way limited to the columned room in the heart of the mountain, but distance yet gave an illusion of safety.
The walls of the circular stone room were lined with books bound in the skins of virgins, and light came from glass balls that hung from sconces glowing from a minor spell. There was no window, nor any opening save a single heavily barred, ironbound door. The scent of incense hissing with colored flames on the coals of a bronze brazier warred with the odor of a noxious brew bubbling in a stone beaker above a fire stoked with human bones. On the tables, dried mummies waited to be powdered for philters, among carelessly scattered ewers of deadly venom and bundles of rare herbs and roots.
The necromancer himself stood watching the boiling brew, his attention rapt. The dark liquid began to froth higher. With but a moment’s hesitation he removed the amulet from his neck. A chill climbed his backbone at being even so barely separated, but it was necessary. Before the black froth reached the rim of the beaker, he lowered the amulet by its chain until serpent and eagle alike were covered. The silver chain grew colder, bitter metal ice searing his preternaturally long fingers. The froth sank, but the black liquid bubbled even more fiercely. The stone of the beaker began to glow red.
“Hand of a living man, powdered when dry
Blood of an eagle, no more to fly
Eye of the mongoose, tooth of the boar
Heart of a virgin, soul of a whore
Burn to their blackness, heat till they boil
Dip in the periapt, confounding the roil.”
Hands shaking with haste, Amanar removed the amulet. He wanted to wipe it dry on the instant and replace it about his neck, but this stage of the spell was critical. With long bronze tongs he lifted the stone beaker. Nearby, atop a white marble pedestal, was a small, clear crystal coffer, fragile seeming against even that smooth stone. Deliberately the mage tilted the tongs, pouring the boiling liquid over the gleaming box.
The words he muttered then were arcane, known only to him among the living. The scalding mixture struck the small coffer. The crystal shrieked as if it would shatter in ten thousand pieces. The liquid seemed to gather itself to fly away in steam. As if from a great distance, screams echoed in the room. Mongoose and boar. Virgin and whore. Abruptly there was silence. The noxious mix was gone, no drop of it remaining. The crystal walls of the coffer now contained gray clouds, shifting and swirling as if before a great wind.
Breathing heavily, Amanar set the beaker and tongs aside. Confidence was flowing back into him. The haven, however temporary, was prepared. He wiped the amulet clean, inspecting it minutely before placing it once more about his neck.
From below rose the dolorous tone of a great bronze gong. Smiling, the mage unbarred the door and took up the crystal coffer beneath his arm. The gong echoed hollowly again.
Amanar made his way directly to the alabaster walled audience chamber, its domed ceiling held aloft by carven ivory columns as thick as a man’s trunk. Behind his throne reared a great serpent of gold. The arms of the throne were hooded vipers of Koth, the legs adders of Vendhya, all of gold. As he surveyed the assemblage before him, the necromancer allowed no particle of his surprise to touch his face. The S’tarra he had expected knelt with heads bowed, while five young women he had definitely not expected, in gossamer silks, hands bound behind their backs, were forced to prostrate themselves before the throne.
Amanar sat, carefully holding the crystal coffer on his lap. “You have that which I sent you for?” he said.
Sitha stepped forward. “They brought this, master.” The S’tarra Warden presented an ornate casket of worked gold, the lid set with gemstones.
The mage forced himself to move slowly, but still his fingers trembled as he opened the casket. One by one, four jewels the like of which no man had ever seen, mounted in pendants of silver or gold, were casually tossed on the mosaic floor. A blood-red pearl the size of a man’s two thumbs. A diamond black as a raven’s wing, and big as a hen’s egg. A golden crystal heart that had come from the ground in that shape. A complex lattice of pale blue that could cut diamond. All were as nothing to him. His hand shook visibly as he removed the last, the most important. As long as the top joint of a man’s finger, of midnight hue filled with red flecks that danced wildly as Amanar’s palm cupped the stone, this was the pendant that must be kept from Morath-Aminee.
He waved the golden casket away. “Dispose of those trifles, Sitha.” His S’tarra henchman bowed, and gathered the pendants.
Almost tenderly Amanar swathed the dark stone in silk, then laid it in the crystal coffer. When he replaced the lid, he breathed a sigh of relief. Safe, at last. Not even Morath-Aminee would be able to detect what was in there, for a time, at least. And before that could happen he would have found a new haven, far away, where the god-demon would never think to look.
Clutching the crystal box firmly, Amanar turned his attentions to the women lying before him with their faces pressed to the divers-colored tiles. They trembled, he noted with idle satisfaction.
“How came you by these women?” the mage demanded.
Surassa, who had led the foray, lifted a scaled head. The dark face was expressionless, the words sibilant. “Before Shadizar, master, we spoke the words you told us, and ate the powders, that the glamour might be on us, and none should see us enter.”
“The women,” Amanar said impatiently. “Not every last thing that happened.” He sighed at the look of concentration that appeared in the S’tarra’s red eyes. When they knew a thing by rote, it was difficult for them to separate one part.
“The palace, master,” Surassa hissed finally. “We entered the palace of Tiridates unseen, but when we came to the place where that which you sent us to seek was to be, only the casket was to be found. Taking the casket, we searched then the palace. Questioning some, and slaying them for silence, we found the pendants about the necks of these women, and slew the men who were with them. Leaving then the palace, we found that, as you had warned us, the glamour had worn off. We donned the robes—”
“Silence,” Amanar said, and the saurian creature’s words ceased at once. For their limited intelligence he had commanded them to fetch the casket and all five pendants, fearing they might make a mistake in the pressure of the moment and bring the black diamond instead of that which he needed. Yet despite all his careful instructions they had managed to increase their risk of being caught by taking these women. Rage bubbled in him, made all the worse for knowing that punishing them would be like punishing dogs. They would accept whatever he did, and understand not a whit of why. The S’tarra, sensing something of his mood, shifted uneasily.
“Bring the women before me,” the necromancer commanded.
Hastily the five women were pulled to their knees and the bare covering of their silks ripped away. With fearful eyes the kneeling, naked women watched Amanar rise. He walked thoughtfully down the line of them. Severally and together, they were beautiful, and just as important to him, their dread was palpable.
He stopped before a pale blonde with ivory satin skin. “Your name, girl?”
“Susa.” He quirked an eyebrow, and she hastily added, “Master. I am called Susa, an it please you, master.”
“You five are the dancing girls Yildiz sent to Tiridates?”
Her blue eyes were caught by his dark ones, growing more tremulous as he watched. “Yes, master,” she quavered.
He stroked his chin and nodded. A king’s dancing girls. Fitting for one who would come to rule the world. And when the last jot of amusement had been wrung from them, their puny souls could feed Morath-Aminee.
“Conan will free us,” one of the girls suddenly burst out. “He will kill you.”
Amanar walked slowly down the line to confront her. Slender and long of leg, her big, dark eyes stared defiance even as her supple body trembled. “And what is your name, girl?” His words were soft, but his tone brought a moan from her throat.
“Velita,” she said at last.
He noted how her teeth had clamped lest she should say “master.” There would be much pleasure in this one. “And who is this Conan who will rescue you?”
Velita merely trembled, but Surassa spoke. “Pardon, master, but there was one of that name spoken of in Shadizar. A thief who has grown troublesome.”
“A thief!” Amanar laughed. “Well, little Velita. What shall I do about this rescue? Sitha, command the patrols, if they find this man Conan they are to bring me his skin. Not the man. Just the skin.” Velita shrieked and crumpled forward to rest her sobbing head on her knees. Amanar laughed again. The other women watched him, terror-struck. But not enough, he thought. “Each night you will dance for me, all five of you. She who pleases me most will gain my bed for the night. The middle three will be whipped and sleep in chains. She who pleases me least …” he paused, feeling the anxiety grow “ … will be given to Sitha. He is rough, but he knows still how to use a woman.”
The kneeling women cast one horrified glance at the reptilian creature, now watching them avidly, and threw themselves prostrate, groveling, screaming, pleading. Amanar basked in the miasma of their terror. Surely this was what the god-demon felt when it consumed a soul. Stroking the crystal coffer and stroked by their shrieks, he strode from the chamber.
XIII
Conan eyed the ridge to the left of the narrow valley the bandits were traversing. There had been movement up there. Only a flicker, but his keen gaze had caught it. And there had been others.
He booted his horse forward along the winding trail to where Hordo rode. Karela was well to the front, fist on one red-booted thigh, surveying the mountainous countryside as if she headed an army rather than a motley band of two score brigands, snaking out behind her.
“We’re being watched,” Conan said as he came alongside the one-eyed bandit.
Hordo spat. “Think you I don’t know that already?”
“Hillmen?”
“Of course.” The lone eye frowned. “What else?”
“I don’t know,” Conan said. “But the one good chance I had, I saw a helmet, not a turban.”
“The soldiers are still behind us,” Hordo said thoughtfully. “Talbor and Thanades will let us know if they begin to close.”
The two bandits had been ordered to trail behind, keeping the Zamoran cavalry in sight. Conan refrained from suggesting they might have become affrighted apart from the band and fled, or that Karela was holding the soldiers in too much contempt. “Whoever they are, we’d best hope they don’t attack us here.”
Hordo looked at the steep, scrub-covered slopes rising on either side of the trail and grimaced. “Mitra! Pray they’re not strong enough, though a dozen good men … .” He trailed off as Aberius appeared on the trail ahead, whipping his horse steadily.
“That looks ill,” Conan said. Hordo merely grunted, and the two rode forward to reach Karela as the weasel-faced bandit galloped up.
“Hillmen,” Aberius panted. Greasy sweat dotted his face. “Six score, maybe seven. Camped athwart the trail ahead. And they’re breaking camp.”
There was no need to discuss the danger. Kezankian hillmen admitted allegiance to no one but themselves, though both Turan and Zamora had tried futilely to subdue them. The fierce tribesmen’s way with strangers was simple, short and deadly. One not of his clan, even another hillman, was an enemy, and enemies were for killing.
“Coming this way?” Karela said quietly. At Aberius’ anxious nod she cursed under her breath.
“And the soldiers behind,” Hordo growled.
Karela’s green eyes flashed at the bearded man. “Do you grow frightened with age, Hordo?”
“I’ve no desires to be between the sledge and the stone,” Hordo replied, “and my age has naught to do with it.”
“Watch you don’t become an old woman,” she sneered. “We’ll leave the trail, and let the hillmen and the soldiers exhaust themselves on each other. Mayhap we’ll have a good view from the ridge.”
Conan laughed, and tensed as the red-haired woman rounded on him with her hand on her sword. If he was forced to disarm her—he did not think he could kill her, even to save his own life—he would certainly have to fight Hordo as well. And likely the rest of the brigands, who had gathered a short distance down the rocky trail.
“Your idea of letting them fight among themselves is a good one,” he said, “but if we try to take horses up these slopes we’ll be at it still a week hence.”
“You’ve a better plan, Cimmerian?” Her voice was sharp, but she had loosed her grip on her jeweled tulwar.
“I have. Most of the band will ride back along the trail and up one of the side canyons we’ve passed.”
“Back toward the soldiers?” Hordo protested.
“The hillmen have trackers, too!” Aberius shrilled. “Once they pick up our trail, and they will, it’s us that’ll have to fight them, not the accursed Zamorans!”
“I trust there’s more to your plan,” Karela said softly. “If you turn out to be a fool after all … .” Her words trailed off, but there was a dangerous glint in her tilted eyes. Conan knew she would not forgive the shame of having taken a fool to her bed.
“I said most of the band,” the big Cimmerian went on calmly. “I will take a few men forward to where the hillmen are.”
Aberius’ laugh was scathing, and frightened. “And defeat all seven score? Or perhaps you think your mild face and dulcet tones will turn their blades aside?”
“Be silent!” Karela commanded. She touched her full lips with her tongue before going on in a quieter voice. “If you’re a fool, Conan, you’re a brave one. Speak on.”
“I’ll attack the hillmen, all right,” Conan said, “but as soon as they know I’m there, I’ll be away. I’ll lead them past where the rest have turned off the trail, straight to the soldiers. While they’re fighting, I and who comes with me will slip away to rejoin you and the others.”
“One or the other will have your guts for saddle ties,” Aberius snorted.
“Then they’ll have yours, too,” Karela said. “And mine. For you and I will accompany him.” The man’s pinched face drew tighter, but he said nothing. Conan opened his mouth to protest; she cut him off. “I lead this band, Cimmerian, and I send no man to danger while I ride to safety. Accept that, or I’ll have you tied across your saddle, and you can accompany the others.”
A chuckle rumbled up from Conan’s massive chest. “There’s no sword I’d rather have beside me than yours. I only thought that without you there, those rogues might keep on riding right out of the mountains.”
After a moment she joined his laughter. “Nay, Conan, for they know I’d pursue them to Gehanna, if they did. Besides, Hordo will keep my hounds in line. What’s the matter with you, bearded one?”
Hordo stared at her with grim eyes. “Where the Red Hawk must bare her blade,” he said flatly, “there ride I.”
Conan waited for another blast of the red-haired bandit’s temper, but instead she sat her horse staring at Hordo as if she had never seen him before. Finally she said, “Very well, though you’re like to lose your other eye if you don’t listen to me. Get the rest on their way.”
The one-eyed man bared his teeth in a fierce grin and whirled his horse back down the trail.
“A good man,” Conan said quickly..
Karela glared. “Do not upbraid me, Cimmerian.”
The mass of brigands clattered down the twisting trail and were soon lost to sight. Hordo booted his horse back up to where Conan and the others waited.
“Think you the watchers will take a hand in this, Conan?” the beard
ed brigand asked.
“What watchers?” Karela demanded. Aberius let out a low moan.
Conan shook his head. “Men on the hillside, but not to concern us now, I think. If they numbered enough to interfere, we’d know it already.”
“Hordo, you knew of this and didn’t tell me?” Karela said angrily.
“Do we wait here talking,” Conan asked, “or do we find the hillmen before they find us?”
For a reply Karela kicked her horse into a gallop up the trail.
“If her mind were not on you, Cimmerian,” Hordo growled, “she’d not need to be told.” He spurred after the Red Hawk.
Aberius looked as if he wanted to ride back after the other bandits, but Conan pointed ahead. “That’s the way.”
The weasel-faced brigand showed his teeth in a snarl, and reluctantly turned his horse after the other two. Conan rode in close behind, forcing him to a gallop.
As soon as they reached the others, Conan drew his sword and rested it across his muscular thighs. With thoughtful looks Karela and Hordo did the same. On that narrow trail, often snaking back on itself with screening escarpments of stone, they would be on the hillmen without warning. If the hillmen did not come on them the same way. Aberius lagged back, chewing his lip.
Abruptly they rounded a sharp bend, and were into the camp of the hillmen. There were no tents, but dark, hook-nosed men in turbans and dirty motley bent to strap bedrolls while others kicked dirt over the ashes of their fires. A thick, bowlegged man, his bare chest crossed by a belt that held his tulwar, saw them first, and an ululating cry broke from his throat. For a bare moment every man in the camp froze, then a shriek of “Kill them!” sent all rushing for their horses.
Conan pulled his horse around as soon as the shout rose. There was no need to do more to ensure being followed. “Back,” he said, forcing his horse against those of Karela and Hordo. Aberius seemed to have broken free already. “Back, for your lives.”
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