He was well fed and of good cheer.
More food swelled one of the packs borne by the horse behind him; Water-hog had become temporary sumpter-animal, though in a few hours Horse would take his turn. Water-hog also bore three water-sacks and a pack containing some of the wealth-hopes of Uskuda and his late associate.
The camels had proved recalcitrant, and the Cimmerian no drover. After both kicking and cursing them soundly, he I left the supercilious beasts-still chewing-and vowed to take possession of them on his way back to Arenjun. Of course that was naive, but Conan, like all sensible men, hoped and dreamed.
All day he rode hard, due south. At dusk he rested for an hour, and changed horses, replacing saddle with packs.
He rode on into the night, letting Water-hog pace himself as he wished. The northerner hardly noted his crossing of the Road of Kings, on which some day he'd be a conquering rider. A caravan he met directed him to a well, where he and his horses tarried to drink. First refilling the leather-covered pottery jug by which water was drawn up, Conan rode on for another hour. Only then did he halt his progress, exhausted with weariness himself, Conan nevertheless felt obliged to tether both animals. All three slept, dosing in the dawning sun and an inhospitable bed of rock and sand.
A few minutes after he awoke hours later, the Cimmerian was again on his way.
Two horses and full packs and belly cheered him, as did In words of the caravan seer he'd talked with; yes, they had met another lone traveller, headed south. A woman? Why yes, that pilgrim had been a spindly sort though chesty — By all the gods! So that was why! Aye-a woman! And the caravan seer cursed. Clever of a woman, not so cleverly travelling alone, to disguise herself with loose clothing and with sand-hood!
Now Conan was reasonably sure that he followed Isparana of Zamboula.
The terrain roughened and was all rocky and rolling, and in three hours Conan approached what appeared to be a great grey dragon sprawling across his path. No longer did he push his horses so rapidly. They profited little from that; the going was not easy.
At last he reached the 'dragon', a long range of interwoven hills that would have been called mountains by those not of Cimmeria.
Conan sat and stared glumly at the slumberous dragon, bare of vegetation save for a scraggly cedar rising out of rock here and there to perch precariously. Now he saw that he must cross a series of east-west hills, sprawling down behind the other high parallel lines. And every hill's crest looked like the back of a rooting hog. He'd be hours and hours getting through and over this multiple barrier.
Nor was that all. At the very top of the farthest humpback hill, perhaps a mile and a half distant but many hours' difficult ride, Conan saw another traveller. That rider was just reaching the rocky hill's summit. Mounted on a camel, the other pilgrim led another, which Conan saw was well laden with packs of provisions. The camels' high plump hump's bespoke their lack of need for water.
The rider bore no hump. Indeed, even in flowing white desert garb and dun-coloured djellaba, the rider was small, narrow of shoulder.
Conan knew it was a woman. He assumed that it was Isparana.
It was maddening! She was in sight-and perhaps a day away! With his horses again weary and soon to be in pressing need of water, the Cimmerian knew that he was at least a day behind her. He sat and cursed by Crom and by Lir and by Badb and Nemain the Venomous, and by Macha and Mannanan. Far off in the hills of Cimmeria, they paid him no mind.
Then, from behind a huge boulder little smaller than Hisarr Zul's manse, another rider emerged.
This one must have met Isparana along the mass of rocky hillsides; now he was no more than fifty feet from her pursuer. As he paced his horse forward he raised his I hand in a gesture of peaceful greeting. Conan was glad enough to return it. He and his horses were too tired to fight or run, and sweat ran from under his hair.
Besides, behind the first man came another, and another. And still another. And a fifth.
All wore arms, and cloaks of the same colour, and spiked helmets with pendent camails; helms and cloaks were alike: uniforms. Their features were Hyrkanian, and Conan knew that he was braced by five tall, dark-faced Turanian soldiers.' From Zamboula? He thought fast.
'Hot enough for you?' the first asked, pacing forward.
Conan hated the phrase, which must have been a cliché ere Atlantis sank. Yet the words, like the dark-skinned man's voice and mien, were encouraging; they were friendly.
'Becoming so,' Conan said. 'You're as strange a caravan as I.'
The Hyrkanian grinned. We're – Tarim's name! Where are you from, with those blue eyes?'
'Cimmeria,' Conan said easily. The man was a provincial who'd never seen eyes coloured other than brown! Encouraged, Conan lied glibly. 'More recently I left Shadizar. Surely you haven't come all the way up from Zamboula.'
'Cimmeria!' the man was shaking his head. 'I've never seen such eyes! No, we're out of Samara, and ours is the worst job loyal soldiers can be handed by a callous commander. We follow two men-we hope. Have you seen- Thieves?'
'How did you know?'
While the other four Turanians reined in before him, Conan gestured. 'Several days back, at an oasis-' He broke down then, realizing he'd never see those camels again. Damn! These southern and eastern gods did conspire against a man!
The Turanian leader looked a bit stern. 'Yes?' Conan jerked his head and gave the man a rueful look. 'Oh, I'd hoped to go back and get those camels, but they're lost to me anyhow – there's a long caravan ahead of you. Yes, I've seen them, if you follow thieves. They were at an oasis where I stopped. My horses and I needed both water and sleep. The two there before me had camels. I supposed they were waiting to travel by night. It was dusk. I went to sleep, across the water-hole from them.'
'Hm. And?'
'And one of them tried to kill me while I slept. Fortunately, the fool stumbled. I kicked him into the pool, dragged him out, and saw his companion coming at the run. I cut the first one's throat.'
'Nice of you not to foul the water.'
'So I thought. His partner was running at me then, with a sword. We fought. I was better than he.'
'They took you by surprise and you killed them both?'
'Only one took me by surprise.' Conan sat up in his saddle, t remind the frowning Hyrkanian of his size. 'I'd have brought their camels, but I couldn't make them follow me. As I am in haste, I left their packs.' He grinned. 'I couldn't even make one of them get on to his feet!'
All five soldiers laughed, but not in scorn; they knew camels.
'You don't know camels,' their leader said.
'I don't. I think I don't want to.'
'Camels like to think they're accompanying you, not being driven or led,' a soldier said.
'You seem to have one sword too many,' another observed.
'Only a half,' Conan said, and carefully, using his left hand, he drew his own blade from its saddle-slung sheath.
'I broke this in the fight. It was a good sword, too.'
'Looks it. Also old; gone brittle, perhaps. And the one! you wear belongs – belonged to one of the men we follow.'
Conan nodded. 'I hope you aren't employed by a lord who'd see an honest man disarmed.' Try and do it, he thought, while more than hoping they would not.
The leader shrugged. 'No, no; keep it. I do fear we are employed by a lord so niggardly that we must search the packs of your sumpter-animal, though.'
Conan affected a great sigh. 'Ah, and I am passing anxious to catch up to the rider you five just met, too.'
'That woman? I can't imagine why. Unfriendly bitch I'
'Indeed ' Conan said, nodding and grinning; a man among men, talking about a woman. 'She is indeed! Her former lord, back in Shadizar, is not all that unhappy to see her go. He does want back a few little trifles she took with her, though. You noted a well-laden sumpter camel?'
'Aye. So. She lied to us, and both you and we follow thieves! Well, I regret the necessity of searching your pack, uh where di
d you say you come from?'
'Shadizar – oh. Cimmeria.'
'Cimmeria. Up north somewhere?'
Conan nodded. "The weather is a bit chill — though I admit I'd welcome it right now. I came down to warmer climes to seek my fortune, and found employment as bodyguard to a moneyed sort in Shadizar. If I don't catch up to Isparana, I may as well keep on going.'
'Check the packs,' the Turanian leader directed, and two of his men went to do so. He looked Conan appraisingly up and down. 'A man who is employed as bodyguard and kills two men who surprised him in sleep would be welcome in Samara-if he chooses to wear one of these.' He touched his helmet.
'A northerner with my accent and these eyes, employed in Turan?'
The man gestured. 'Of course. We're not bigots. Men who are good with weapons can find employment anywhere. Or death, if they choose not to be on the side of the Empire and its laws. Kambur here is from Iranistan.'
'I will remember,' Conan said, and twice asked the man's name, and committed it to memory. Arsil, of Samara.
Fifteen minutes later the Cimmerian was advised that tin, necklace and this chalice and these matched pearls would have to go with the soldiers. Oh, and this dagger with the jewel-crusted hilt.
'These have been specifically listed as missing, and by man of wealth and power,' he was told. 'We have no list of these other things, and you don't look like a thief. They must be yours.' And Arsil of Samara winked.
'In truth,' Conan said, 'I believe one each of those gold coins belongs to your men. You must have dropped them.' 'Hmm. Since they are Samaratan, you must be right. One nu-.h, men, It has been our pleasure, Cimmerian.'
'I admit it hasn't been mine. My pack is lighter. And I am farther behind Isparana. Is there no way around these hills, or a way through them faster than the route she took; the way you came?'
The Turanian frowned darkly and shook his head. 'Conan: there it is. One winds one's way up, starting behind that grandfather of boulders. You don't want to know about
it, or take it.'
Conan continued staring questioningly at him until Arsil spoke on, with reluctance. He gestured.
'From the top of the first hogback a man can see a gorge; a ravine that slices through the rest of the hills. It was the pass through the Dragon Hills for hundreds of years. It still looks tempting. In the face of crossing so much hard terrain, many have been tempted and have succumbed. The gorge is haunted or peopled by... something. Over the course of the past ten years, when the haunting began, exactly two of those who entered the gorge – seeking a short cut through the hills – have emerged. Both were inexplicably abraded, and both were mad; driven mad by the demon in that gulch! One babbled about a lich, a sand-lich, and now the ravine is called the Gorge of the Sand-lien. The bones of all others who have ridden into that deadly pass lie within... though their animals nearly always emerge. Take the fortune doled out by wise gods, Conan of Cimmeria, good and bad; cross the hills despite the time, and avoid that demon-haunted gorge, for it is only a pass and a short-cut to Hell.'
'No one has invaded in force? You know nothing more?'
'Tarim's beard! Is that not enough?' 'Aye... my thanks, Arsil of Samara. I must ride, be a day crossing those accursed hills!'
'Very nearly,' the Turanian assured him, nodding. 'Lea, than two days' ride beyond, though, lies a fine sprawling oasis. Rest there, and count your blessings for having met us, and avoided that beckoning passage to Hell! Good fortune, in catching your woman ' 'Not my woman.'
'Make her so then, man —if only temporarily!' And reining about, Arsil joined his men, to lead them northward.
Thus the one and the five parted, with the Turanians' riding on to attempt retrieval of the rest of the loot stolen in Samara. Conan had seen no reason to tell them that he'd paced one hundred steps eastward from the oasis of death,; and there buried the very best contents of those recalcitrant camels' packs.
His horses slipped and slid and complained as they! made their way up that first rocky hill, and Conan found it expedient to dismount and make his way on foot. Descending the other side was no easier, and by the time he reached the narrow valley that separated the first and second hills he knew what he was going to do.
Mounting, he rode a short distance westward and entered the long, rather broad gorge he had seen from the hillside. Certainly he believed in demons and hauntings; he also believed implicitly in himself. And he was in a hurry.
VI. The Sand Lich
The deep slice along which Conan rode was nearly straight n nigh to have been chopped here by a single blow of the '.word of a giant, provided the blade had been curved, and n bit wavy. Long ages ago roaring foaming water or resistance must have torn out this ravine that forged between hill after hill. No valley this, but a cleft through the land Mutt would accommodate no more than three mounted men riding abreast. Granitic rocks in greys and browns, shot with occasional splotches or veins of red and ochre, rose thrice the height of a mounted man. The forbidding rock laces seemed to glower down on the lone rider with his two horses. Conan kept to his left, availing himself of a I lit of shade.
The horses were restless, nervous. The very sand seemed to shimmer and shift, gem-sparkling, under their gingerly racing hooves. Conan told himself that the intermittent low moaning sounds emanated from a breeze blowing down the gaping cleft between looming cliffs.
There was no wind. There was not so much as a breeze.
The sun was a palpable force, shade or no, and Conan's head seemed to fulminate. At least he saw no corpses, no bones. His mount paced deeper into the gently bending gorge. The very air was menacing, oppressive.
Keeping a tight rein lest the beast try to make good on his threats to bolt, Conan never ceased turning his head. Eyes hard as blue agate burned this way and that, seeking to project a gaze to pierce the very stone that hemmed him.
He saw a place where he might get up out of the gorge and on to one of the hills. The option was still open to him; already he had cut hours off Isparana's lead.
The sun seemed to resent that, and sought to bake him like rock-bread, in the space enclosed by the glowering cliffs.
The moaning rose in volume and increased its frequency. The tone was higher now, and seemingly human or, worse, preter-human; a doomed creature crying out its plaints of, misery. Or... threats? And somehow gaining strength, too, as if nurtured by his presence here in its rock-bound domain; as if feeding on every step of his incursion.
A lich? A sand-lich? Surely no corpse made such sounds!
He glanced back. His pack-horse pranced and sidled, tossed its head and rolled fearful eyes. They had come far, the Cimmerian saw. The gulch's shallow bend and gentle little curvings had blotted its entry from sight.
Half-way, the Cimmerian thought. We've come half-way. No use turning back, now.
The moaning came from behind him. The moaning rose before him, trembled around a shadowed curve in the passage ahead. It emanated from the towering walls of stone on either side and rose up from the sand beneath the hooves of his nervous horse. The sand twinkled and flashed like millions of tiny gems in the sunlight. The sand moaned. The moaning became a steady keening.
Badb and Nemain, but this was maddening!
His mount plodded past white bones, and Conan compressed his lips in a grim line. They were human bones. So were those-and aye, that was another pallid skeleton, sand-polished and sun-bleached. There lay a sword, not far from the segmented white twigs that had been a man's fingers. That was a dagger over there, and no stain marred its shining blade. He saw the skeleton of but one horse, 'while counting eleven human ones. The while, the moaning rose until it was a steady ululant assault on his ears, a disturbing tenor.
Twelve skeletons. Thirteen. Two Turanian helmets. More weapons.
His horse tried to shy from a fourteenth sprawl of bones, and Conan clamped both legs while he drew in the reins With his big fist. The moaning was no longer intermittent; it but rose and fell, while sounding steadily. As if it had gro
wn stronger with his advance into the narrow, inescapable domain it haunted-or as if he were breaching its inner lair, -challenging it too closely.
'Stop!' he snarled, glaring ferally about. 'Stop your noise! Show yourself or be silent!'
His voice echoed at him from the rough stone walls flunking him-along with the moan-sound, now risen to a wail.
Conan blinked then, and jerked his head as if to clear it. He blinked again, disbelieving his eyes. Ahead and on either side of him, the gorge's sandy floor seemed to have come ' alive. It seemed to be shifting, flowing, the sands skittering brightly as if by little puffs of air. There was no breeze. In his pressing thighs, Conan felt the trembling of his
horse.
And the sand moved.
The sand rose up then, swirling in its millions of grains, tiny spots winking and flashing. There was no wind; not even a zephyr stirred the air. The mournful howling came from no wind, and no wind raised the whirling dancing sand.
His mount whimpered, jerking its head, tried to turn and flee. Conan held it with a very tight rein-and the beast reared. Surrounded by rising spinning sand in refulgent motes, the animal pranced on its hind legs. It dropped again to all fours, bucked, and reared again. Conan clung, compressing his mouth and slitting his eyes against air clogged with ever-moving crystals.
When the horse rose up on its hind hooves for the fourth
time, it also twisted.
Conan knew seconds of disequilibrium, saw the sky seem to dance and tilt. Then sand was above and sky below. Sand stung his hands. The reins tore free, cutting his fingers. Conan hit the ground hard.
Blinded by animated sand and by shock of impact, he heard loud whinnies — and galloping hooves. That sound retreated. His horses were fleeing, back the way they'd come. He had lost both horses, along with their packs.
He rose cursing and squinting against a blinding stinging sandstorm driven by no wind. The curses ceased quickly; he spat grit and clamped teeth and lips. He was a prisoner in a wailing, spinning cloud of never-still sand that rose up and up, billowing.
Conan and the Sorcerer Page 6