Taking advantage of the confusion, the Cimmerian burst clean through the ring of foes, wheeled with the speed of a panther, grabbed a heavy oaken table and, with a muscle-wrenching heave, hurled it into the faces of his enemies. Weapons clattered to the floor, and oaths and cries of pain rent the air. The lull in the fight gave Conan time to rip the great sword from its sheath and snatch out his dagger with his left hand.
He did not wait for a renewed attack. His barbarian blood was roused by this treacherous ambush. A red mist swam before his eyes, and his mind was crazed with the lust of killing. Rushing in to attack, single-handed against the six who were still in action, Conan with a furious kick caved in the ribs of one rascal still on hands and knees.
As he parried a thrust with his dagger, a savage swipe of his heavy sword sheared off the sword arm of another.
Arm and sword fell to the floor, and the man crumpled up, glassy-eyed and screaming, with blood spurting.
That left four, advancing warily in a half-circle. The tall, wolfish leader feinted at Conan’s legs but almost lost his head to the Cimmerian’s whistling countercut. He escaped by throwing himself to the floor. Just before he did so, Conan recognized the man as Baraccus, an Aquilonian noble he had exiled for plotting with the Ophireans.
At that instant, the other three rushed in. One desperate sword-stroke caught Conan on the helmet, denting it and dizzying him. Stars swam before his eyes, but he ripped viciously upward and was rewarded by a hoarse, gurgling scream. A dagger point broke on the stout links of mail covering his right side, but a sword gashed his left arm.
When he hastily wiped the blood from his face he saw that he faced but one enemy, as the Stygian, his dagger broken, had stepped back to pick up a weapon from the floor. The tall leader was rising from his fall.
Conan stepped forward to close with his foe, but his foot slipped in a pool of blood. He fell heavily.
The assassin confronting him shrieked in triumph and rushed forward, lifting his sword. Conan’s foot lashed out and knocked the man’s leg from under him, so that his blow went awry and he fell on top of the Cimmerian, impaling himself on the dagger that Conan thrust up to meet his falling form.
Conan flung the body aside and, with catlike speed, sprang again to his feet to meet the attack of the rearmed Stygian. The dusky giant rushed towards Conan, eyes blazing with dark fires and lips foaming with impassioned hatred. Ducking the swipe of the Cimmerian’s sword, he whipped his white cloak around the blade, imprisoning it in the heavy folds. The knife that the Stygian had picked up was driven against Conan’s side with such force that mail links snapped and the point pierced the Cimmerian’s body.
But Conan ripped into the brown torso with swift and murderous thrusts of his own dirk. The Stygian’s mouth flew open in awful pain, his dagger clattered to the floor, and he doubled up and followed it.
Conan tore his sword free from the folds of the Stygian’s dress and advanced upon the unwounded leader.
“You’ve forgotten your knightly oaths since I kicked you off your estate, eh, Baraccus? ” he snarled. “I should have had your head when I found out your treason, but this time will do as well as any!”
Conan presented a terrible aspect. From beneath his dented helmet, blood flowed down the side of his sweaty face. His right side was red with gore, and a bloody rent showed in his mailshirt. But the will to kill burned unquenched in his terrible glance. Baraccus, remembering the horrific legends of the Cimmerian’s former deeds, lost his nerve and whirled to flee. With a grating laugh, Conan tossed up his sword, caught the hilt reversed, and hurled the weapon like a javelin.
The point smashed through the backplate of Baraccus’ corselet. Baraccus pitched forward at full length, the sword standing upright in his back and a stream of blood running from his mouth.
Conan relaxed a little, surrounded by enemies dead or unconscious. Then a voice behind him aroused his barbarian senses. He wheeled in a flash, expecting another attack.
A fat man stood in the back door, wringing his pudgy hands. “Oh, mercy, what has happened to my fine house?”
he wailed, his face creased by worry. “Blood all over! Furniture ruined!”
Two strides brought Conan to the taverner, under whose chin he poised the point of his dagger. “You had a hand in this, you yapping dog!” he roared. “They could not have set this ambush without your help.”
“Mercy, lord! They threatened to cut my throat otherwise! That would have been almost better than this! They said it would be swift and silent!”
Conan slapped the man’s face with such force that the taverner was thrown against the door jamb. He reeled, and blood ran down his chin from a cut lip.
“Silence!” rumbled Conan, his anger appeased a little. “Be glad I don’t flay you an inch at a time!”
“Yes-yes, lord!” The man wept, in abject terror.
“Now fetch a jack of wine, before I split your head! And of the best! Also some clean cloths to bind up these scratches.”
As the terrified taverner hurried off, Conan kicked a corpse out of the way and sank down wearily upon a bench.
A thought struck him. Where was the handsome wench who had started all this? She was not in the room.
The host returned on trembling legs, holding a flask and a pewter goblet. With an impatient curse, Conan tore the bottle from him and upended it over his parched gullet. When the whole of the contents had poured down without interruption, to the wonder of the unwilling host, Conan set down the empty container with a crash, wiped his mouth on his bloody sleeve, and turned his blue eyes upon the man.
“Killing dries a man’s throat,” he said. “Now tell me: Where is the girl who was here with these men before I entered?”
The fat taverner, green with fear, shook his head. “Noble lord, I never saw her until she came here yesterday, dressed in outlandish garments. She changed her garb in her room on the upper floor. I know not her name or aught else about her.”
Conan heaved himself to his feet, only a little troubled by wounds that would have incapacitated an ordinary man for days. Tearing his sword out of Baraccus’ body, he thundered: “Lead me to her room at once! And should this prove another trap, your soul will rot on the black floors of Hell within the instant!”
Knees knocking, the flabby Khanyrian led the way up the narrow stair.
The Cimmerian followed, his eyes scanning every cranny with wolfish wariness. On the upper floor, his guide paused before a door and chose a key from the great bunch at his girdle. He unlocked the door and opened it wide to reassure the edgy barbarian.
Conan decided that there was no chance of another ambush in that narrow room. The only furniture was a bed and a small table. On the bed lay green silks, a golden sash, a turban strip with an emerald pin, and a filmy veil.
Conan stood silent with startled recognition. This was the garb of a Hyrkanian noblewoman, from the great and growing eastern empire of Turan, from Akif, Shahpur, or Aghrapur itself.
Wheeling and retracing his steps, Conan pondered this new enigma with clouded brow.
With nostrils flaring and sword in hand, Conan stepped alertly from the tavern door. His limbs had become a little stiffened from his wounds and his side ached from the dagger thrust, but he still had vigor enough to spring into the saddle of his waiting horse.
He was mystified by the assault. He well knew that many men of different creeds, races, and stations thirsted for his blood and would have loved to roast his guts over a slow fire. On this mission, however, he had ridden swiftly, silently, and anonymously. Only Trocero and Prospero knew which way he was going, and their loyalty was beyond question. Yet armored foes had ambushed him with gleaming blades.
Something or someone had brought Baraccus from the West and the Hyrkanian woman from the East together to try to trap him.
Conan shrugged the puzzle from his mind with the fatalistic equanimity of the barbarian. As he could not now grasp the whole picture behind the recent incident, he was content to wa
it until further information came to light.
He cantered leisurely through the streets with eyes darting into the shadows. The only light came from an occasional flickering taper in a window. His thoughts came back to the beautiful woman who had nearly led him to his death. The sight of her well-molded form had fired his blood, and he had meant to take a kiss at the very least as a reward for helping her. But now she was gone as if by magic.
Emerging upon a wide, deserted square, Conan, aided by the dim light of the clouded moon, saw the outline of a spired edifice, pointing like a finger to the heavens. In the deepening darkness it gleamed dull yellow like the reflex of a dying sun. This was the tower where Pelias secreted himself from the undesired company of his fellow men.
A broad expanse of trimmed gardens and lawns surrounded the yellow tower. No walls, fences, or forbidding gates ringed it. They were not needed. Horrid legends, whispered in the dark of evening, had taught the Khanyrians to keep away from sorcerers’ abodes, into which an intruder might enter but from which he would probably never return.
Conan’s horse shied at the edge of the lawn, whinnying and stomping. It chewed its bit and blew foam from its lips.
“Crom!” muttered the Cimmerian. “It seems as if Pelias has unholy company. Well, I can walk.”
He dismounted and strode up the narrow flagstone walk, his eyes roving and his hand on his hilt. Necromantic rites often drew nameless monstrosities in the night, as the smell of carrion attracts vultures.
Conan had met many kinds of beings spawned in other times and planes of existence. Many could be fought and slain only by magical weapons or by incantations read from dusty volumes or pieces of crumbling parchment.
But Conan’s taste had never run to spells and counterspells. He trusted his keen-edged sword more than all the magical mummery.
However, no demon from the darker haunts barred his way. He reached the tower without seeing a single sign of life among the shrubs and flowers.
Just then the clouds slid away from the moon. By the bright moonlight, Conan saw that the yellowish color of the tower was caused by an abundance of small golden coins set in plaster. Conan peered at those on a level with his eyes. None was familiar, and he suspected that it was the same with the rest. All had the look of great age. On some, the golden ridges of letters and cryptic signs had been worn away until nothing but a polished disk remained.
Conan knew that gold was considered a valuable auxiliary in making magic, especially in the form of coins from the ancient kingdoms. Here, thought Conan, were tokens from the long-dead realms of forgotten legendry, when priests and wizards ruled with awful terror, dragging maidens screaming to dark caverns where ghastly rituals were performed, or beheading thousands of prisoners in the public squares until rivers of bubbling blood filled the gutters.
Conan shivered. Much evil was concentrated here. Nevertheless, he tried the iron door.
The heavy slab of metal swung silently inward. Sword in hand, the Cimmerian entered, senses fine-whetted like those of a prowling tiger.
By the faint light coming through the open door he could see two flights of stairs, one circling upward while the other lost itself in underground darkness.
Conan’s keen nostrils picked up an alien smell from the stairs leading downwards. He suspected that this musky odor wafted up from a maze of caverns beneath the tower. The Cimmerian’s eyes narrowed. Into his mind flitted the remembrance of similar odors in the haunted catacombs of the dead city of Python, in Stygia, where fearsome shapes wander by night. He shook his head as an angry lion shakes its mane.
Suddenly he was startled by words in a deep, resonant voice: “Welcome, Conan! Mount the stairs leading upward and follow the light!”
Glaring about, Conan could detect no clue to the origin of the voice.
It seemed to come from everywhere, reverberating like the tones of a temple gong.
A glowing ball sprang into view in front of Conan, so suddenly that he took an instinctive step backwards. It hung in the air without visible support, shining brightly. By its light, Conan saw that he stood in a hall adorned with tapestries of ancient and curious design. One wall was covered with shelves on which stood oddly-shaped containers of stone, silver, gold, and jade. Some were set with gems, others were plain, and all were mingled helter-skelter.
The glowing globe moved slowly toward the stairs. Conan followed it without hesitation. One never knew the mind of a wizard, but Pelias at any rate seemed well-disposed towards the Cimmerian.
Not a creak sounded from the steps as Conan glided upwards, sword still in hand, though a little more relaxed than before. The steps ended on a landing barred by a copper-sheathed door with esoteric signs engraved in fanciful and involved patterns on its ruddy surface. Some of these Conan recognized from his wanderings as powerful magical symbols from the secret knowledge of ancient races. He scowled distrustfully. Then the door opened silently and the shimmering light went out.
Now there was no need of it. The room Conan entered was large and well-lighted. It was furnished with a mixture of flamboyant wall decorations and expensive works of art from many lands. A multitude of wall brackets held flaming tapers; soft rugs covered the floor.
In the center of the room stood an enormous, pillow-strewn divan. On this lay Pelias, a tall, lean, gray-haired man in scholar’s robes. His eyes were dark and meditative, his head narrow and well-formed, his hands and feet small and trim. He had been studying, for empty spaces gaped in the huge bookcase and several volumes were scattered about the floor. Close by the divan, a large table was littered with parchment scrolls. At least they locked like parchment, though Conan knew that wizards preferred their mightiest spells to be written on cured human skin.
On the wall hung a mirror in a simple iron frame, contrasting with the luxury of the other furnishings. Conan was not surprised by the sybaritic atmosphere. Unlike most sorcerers, Pelias had never looked askance upon the pleasures of the flesh.
“Welcome, Conan! ” cried the magician. “It has been nearly four years!”
Then Pelias sprang up with narrowed eyes as Conan walked heavily forward, sheathing his sword. “You are wounded! And lately! You need a stronger draught than this wine. Wait!”
Pelias turned to an ornately-carved cupboard and opened one of its many small doors. From a recess he took a crystal flask, half full of a liquid of smoky violet hue. Into a wine cup he poured a good measure of the liquid and proffered it, saying: “Drink this, my friend. It is made from the secret herbs of the Misty Isles and the lands beyond Kush. It will heal your wounds and ease your tired muscles.”
Conan downed the draught with one mighty gulp. For a moment he grimaced. His veins seemed afire and his brain whirled and reeled. Then these feelings were replaced by sensations of well-being and content. A vast weight of weariness seemed lifted from his shoulders; he had not realized how fatigued his wounds and exertions had left him.
Pulling off his dented helmet, Conan felt his tingling scalp under the bandage. His hair was still matted with dried blood, but no wound could he find, not even a scar. His side and other wounded parts had stopped aching.
“Truly this is a magical brew, Pelias!” he said.
“It is potent indeed. Apart from the rare ingredients, many potent incantations have been read over it to bring out the full powers of the recipe.”
Conan grunted as he pulled off his mailshirt. “Would I had possessed it many a former time in my life!”
“Let us move on to the question of your errand. What brings you alone and in haste? I have not heard of any strife or great wars in the northwest, in which you might need my aid.”
“Were it only straightforward war, I would never ask magical help,” growled Conan. “But I find myself pitted against dark and unknown powers. I need clues to lead me to where I can smite my foe.”
In swift, short sentences he told of the fateful night in Tarantia.
For a long time Pelias brooded with his chin in his hands. His eyes
were closed, and some might have thought him asleep. Conan, however, knew that the wizard’s brain was working with abnormal speed and keenness behind that deceptive mask. Slowly Pelias’ eyes opened. He spoke.
“A demon of the darkest realms beyond the Mountains of the Night has stolen your spouse. I know how to summon one, but I thought I shared that knowledge with no one else in the West.”
“Then fetch this fiend and we’ll wring the truth out of him!”
“Not so fast, my hot-headed friend! Do not rush headlong into unknown dangers! It is clear that this demon has been summoned by a sorcerer with powers superior to those of ordinary magicians. Should we drag the fiend hither with spells and incantations, we should have both him and his master to cope with, and that might be too much for us. No; I know a better way. The Mirror of Lazbekri shall give us the answer!”
He rose. Again opening the cupboard, he brought out a dully gleaming cup whose rim was inscribed with curious symbols. Conan, who had gained a smattering of many written languages in his wanderings, did not recognize the script.
From a small jar the wizard poured a measure of red powder into the cup. Then he placed the cup on a low ebony table beneath the plain, iron-framed mirror. He threw back the folds of silk from his arm and made a cryptic gesture.
Blue smoke began to spiral up from the cup. It thickened until its billowing clouds filled the room. Conan could but dimly discern the motionless form of the wizard, petrified in trance during his concentration.
For an age, it seemed, nothing happened. Conan began to shift his weight with impatience when he heard Pelias’
whisper:
“The sorcerer’s defenses are strong, Conan. I cannot pierce them. Who is your tutelary deity?”
“It would be Crom, the grim god of the Cimmerians,” muttered Conan, “though I have had naught to do with gods for many years. I leave them alone and they leave me alone.”
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