Conan and the Sorcerer

by Andrew J Offutt

  Sand-demons, desert-men called such when they saw them out on the deserts, spinning because of vagrant gusts of wind. It was only a figure of speech. Not, Conan thought, this time!

  And then, immediately before him, the grains began to cluster, to billow up into a pillar. It spun, swirled, moaned, and that keening wail now hurt his ears. While his nape and armpits prickled and he sweated more than he had during a hotter period of that day, the sand coalesced, thickened. Every grain seemed trying to join every other, in that whirling column.

  The column began to take on an anthropomorphic shape, even as it darkened.

  It did. The sand had formed itself as a man, a dead-faced lich with a sinister dark gape of a mouth, dangling long arms — and no eyes. Though Conan's eyes were slitted almost shut and he could hardly see, he whipped out the curved eastern sword he had of a dead man of Samara.

  The sand lich did not pounce. It swirled, a chaotically spinning greyness in which that gaping mouth remained turned ever towards him, open and black within. The Cimmerian cut at it without effect. The sand seemed undisturbed by the sword's vicious slash through. There was nothing here to cut, nothing to hurt or kill; it was only a tall pile of sand!

  It came over him then. It enveloped him.

  Conan could not fight it, could not gain free, for it 'moved with him as though he were part of it. Sand stung his face, blotted his hearing and vision, pressed at his lips, and he knew he durst not breathe else he fill his nose and throat and lungs with airless grains of death. And the sand shut out all air, and Conan began to strangle, to smother.

  He knew he could not hold his breath forever. He must expel it-or try to. And then would come the time when he must succumb to the automatic demands of his body. He would breathe in — and die.

  He could not escape, could not twist or hurl himself free. The sand was a stinging, cloaking shroud that enveloped Kim, and it would be his death-shroud. His ears were full of a moaning wailing, but now the roaring from within again to blot and overwhelm it...

  Words came then, and the Cimmerian knew that they were not spoken, but that he heard them within his head, in his mind.

  You have no soul!

  I am dying... air...

  You have no soul! No soul! Are you the thrice-accursed Hisarr Zul? No! Dying... air... His-s-sarr... No! No, no!

  Where is your soul?

  Dying... can't breathe... Hisarr Zul has it... I desperately, aware that he had lost his battle, Conan expelled his breath between lips only slitted apart.

  You are not Hisarr?

  NO!

  He has your soul! You have evil of Hisarr Zul?

  Yes! Yes! Dying... must have air... Hisarr stole my soul— you steal my life!

  The swirling pillar-shape, almost man-shape of sand spun away, retreating, freeing him. It withdrew some two feet. Conan fell weakly to his knees, and his gasps were vocal. is eyes bulged and his tongue was out – but now he could breathe. He could not talk for many seconds. He merely laughed, and the air was sweeter than new spring wine.

  You live! Explain! The sand-lich stormed in his brain, and it was both command and yearning wheedling.

  I am of... nowhere hereabouts. I am of Cimmeria, far away.

  Hid far.

  You are not the accursed monster Hisarr Zul?

  'Crom!' Conan bellowed aloud. 'It's he has my soul, my very soul!'

  And though it was surely insanity to talk to sand, no matter that it resembled now a tall grey corpse all a-move with restlessly feeding maggots, the barbarian did so speak, and he went crafty. He was that anomaly, a man whose pride and code demanded truthfulness and would not brook an unkept vow-and one to whom lying on his behalf came easily. This... thing sought Hisarr Zul... and it hated him...

  'I am sent by a well-born employer for the mage Hisarr Zul, for even now he rides hell-bent for Zamboula, having stolen our souls and an amulet of powerful sorcery. Only I could have stopped him...'

  The apparition moaned, seemed to diminish. It kept its distance and in a voice that issued scratchily, hollowly from that gaping black mouth in its sand-formed 'body', it... explained.

  'Accursed Hisarr! He rides hell-bent, does he? Would that he were bound there in fact, him and his black heart and his blacker, treacherous soul! Listen, man of Cimmeria. Hear me, whom you see as monster! I am the shade of Hisarr's brother, I who was Tosya Zul! It was he who slew me and thereby doomed me to this partial existence, restricted to this place of my death! Give ear, man of Cimmeria, to a tale of treachery and the story of how I was murdered!'

  If such a creature as this could be said to be sane or, no, Conan felt that the sand-lich was mad, and with cause.. The Cimmerian knew that he would listen, for he was in its! power. Perhaps it would tell him how it might be laid, of how Hisarr Zul might swiftly be slain. He composed himself to listen to a story he realised the sand-lich was compelled' to tell.

  'None other has heard this story, Cimmerian. Attend.; Together, my brother and I studied the ancient knowledge,'! that scratchy, hollow voice said, 'and the arcane learning of long-dead mages. We learned those secrets known not in, the abodes of men; the demonic lore of those formless! horrors that dwell lurking in the farthest hills of the earth,! in the very blackness between the worlds, in the ever- shifting sun-baked deserts, and in dark caverns where men go not. Incarnate and exotic magical intelligence became ours, and in our weaning pride we sought power. What else is there? Already we had made ourselves wealthy. So we plotted for power, and we were found out – because my brother, as I later learned, could not keep shut his mouth! The khan of Zamboula learned of our plot against him, for his power to make Zamboula our base, and men came for us. Oh, they were right enough! Nefarious were our intents, and we were indeed brewing abominations in our close-shut house in Zamboula. They came to take us. We'd have been broken on the wheel, my brother and I; our nails would have been pulled out with pincers, and our eyes and tongues. I was out of the house when they came marching along the street with their weapons and their protecting little wizard-a minor bit of pulp who could weave only spells of protection and of seduction. I could have fled then! Instead, I risked my life to run along the streets as fast as I could, and in at the door and thus to our privy chambers warn my brother Hisarr. Ah, would that I had fled without him, with nothing but the clothes I wore!

  We worked furiously to fill travelling sacks with the most precious of our gems and pearls, for so had we invested, rather than in land or the mere amassing of coins. We were trying to pack our paraphernalia and the books of our lore, the accretions of fifteen years of study and applied genius, centuries of knowledge, when the khan's men commenced hammering at the door. They bore torches. We could but flee, with the clothing we wore and our wealth. Yet we cursed and cast vile maledictions on the khan and his men, be sure; for the treasures we left behind were priceless, knowledge and objects and preparations beyond the wealth of men – and all we had was such. Trinkets, for buying. Normal men! We were hardly such, my brother and I! Indeed, we had been close on to learning how to remove the very souls from the bodies of men. He has that knowledge now, has he?'

  'Aye,' Conan confirmed, through set teeth.

  'Then he is close on to incredible power. With such knowledge, such an ability, all else becomes petty and inconsequential save the accumulation of power through... aye, now I say the word, after ten years of death: the accumulation of power through blackmail. Imagine what a man would pay to regain his very soul! Imagine what he would do, were it in the hands of another!'

  I need not imagine, the Cimmerian thought bitterly. know. Get on with it, you who were no less living monster than Hisarr Zul!

  'Power over men of the city Watch, first, and then their commanders; over the counsellors and doxies of rulers-and ultimately over rulers themselves! For surely there was a way, my brother, my brilliant brother Hisarr said with those bulgy eyes gleaming like Black Stars, to gain the souls of men from some very personal possession of theirs. So we meant to do. We cou
ld have power over all Zamboula, and then over all Turan, over...

  'But like dogs we fled into the night. Fugitives. We were fortunate to come upon a caravan, late the next day. They knew us not, and we joined them by giving the caravan master no more than six of ten Iranistani lapis lazuli we had-he thought it was all our wealth! We could have bought his entire caravan, the fat fool! Hisarr and travelled north with them, lamenting our loss, vowing to begin anew, vowing vengeance on Zamboula's khan... for, I see now, merely defending and protecting himself against us! I showed my brother those few preparations and writings I had brought out with me — a page from the very Book of Skelos itself! And he lamented, saying that he'd brought forth nothing in our haste to fly. And northward' we rode, with my brother and me at the caravan's rear like common hangers-on.

  'On the night we came to the hills called Dragon, I discovered that Hisarr had indeed brought certain writings and had lied to me! He had kept them from me deliberately; I his brother, who had been his mentor and then partner for so many years – who had permitted that viper to join me as partner. For Hisarr is my younger brother, and it was I who was the genius, the founder and instigator of our... ventures. Without me he'd have been nothing, nothing! Nor had I, in my weaning interest in my studies and our future activities, any thought of the truth of our relationship... He hated me! He resented me my years, my seniority and superior knowledge! The thrice-accursed viper I And so that night I discovered and accused him, and we argued and all of it came out; his resentment and, aye, his hatred of me! We parted on that shocking note, both in anger, and on retiring I took certain precautions, ate of certain leaves and said certain words, for I was nervous and suspicious and sought to prevent my being murdered.

  'I both failed and succeeded, as you see. That very night -or rather morning, for it was just at dawn-my clever brother did death on me, and afterward burned out my dead eyes with white-hot coins. I was left there-here! The caravan wended on. I was dead... but I never so much as lost consciousness! Ah, my spell and my herbs had succeeded, for I was both dead and alive. Ah, the agony! A million times in these intervening years – how many years have passed, man of Cimmeria?'

  'Ten.'

  'Ten! And a million times during those ten years of long long days have I wished that I had taken no such precautions, that I had died as other men do, body and mind and soul. No. My body died. It is dead. It began to decompose, and I knew, I knew my body was rotting! I knew it when jackals came out of these hills and dug up my decomposing flesh, and feasted on it-on me They ate me, barbarian, me! Some of my bones they took away with them, to gnaw in their dark abodes.

  'But I remained alive. My soul is bound to this place. My mind, my ka is bound here, to bemoan my fate and think of peace, and revenge. And when men came, I attacked, for one of them might be my thrice-accursed brother, Hisarr the viper, the fiend! My will was strong, barbarian. It has gained strength with the passing years. I have gained control over the sand here. I have made it a part of me, subject to my will, so that with it I can form this semblance of a body you see; a body formed of sand! And so I have existed, dead but alive, and yet discorporeal. Nor can I leave this area of this accursed gorge where I was slain and buried, for here is my blood and here lie most of my bones. Again and again I have slain, seeking Hisarr-you do understand, northman, that I am surely no longer sane. How could I be?'

  'I understand.'

  Conan thought on the tale he'd had of the being from another world Yara the priest had kept in his fell tower in Arenjun. This sorcerous plotter was hardly so worthy a prisoner, hardly so pathetic and deserving of aid. Yet still...

  'Upon the death of my brother, northman, barbarian, Cimmerian — is that it?'

  Conan nodded, but the sand-lich had no eyes. 'Yes. Cimmerian. I am — '

  'Upon his death,' the mad ghost broke in, raving, 'I too shall find rest. I welcome it now. No longer do I lust for

  life! This existence is horror! I have served my time in Hell, Cimmerian, and all the while I have been here on the mortal plane! And now... now, discovering that you have no soul – for I, a discorporate soul, know – find the means for my deliverance. Hear me! Hear me, Cimmerian, for you too have cause to hate my brother and wish his death.'

  Conan's face was like the stone statue of a grimly stern god, then, and his voice emerged as menacing. He spoke without disturbing the set muscles of his face: 'Yes.'

  'Then hear me! You must capture him, make him help-l less! He can be slain, Cimmerian, though not as other men may be done to death. The waters of the Zarkheba River will slay him, for that river of far south-western Rush flows with venom. Or any of his own... methods may be turned ' back on him, which is why he wears no weapons-is this true?'

  'It is true.' But where will I come by waters of some impossibly distant river, and how may such as I know how to turn back his own sorcerous weapons on him?

  'And he has learned to effect the stealing of souls.'

  'Aye. His keep in Arenjun is guarded by men whose souls he took and imprisoned in mirrors... which he then shattered. But-'

  'Ah. You can give them rest by stuffing the skull of I Hisarr with earth, and his ears and nostrils, and then severing that head and seeing that it is burned – utterly consumed by flame.'

  'His skull. But he lives...' And Conan thought: You are mad indeed, Itch of Tosya Zul!

  'He may be slain also by iron forged in Stygia over a fire of bones, for from that dark and demonic land came most of our spells. And he may be slain, too, by strangulation with the hair of a virgin slain with bronze, and made woman after the hair is removed.'

  Conan said nothing. He felt his stomach lurch. What an abomination this creature without pity so calmly pronounced! Even for his soul, the Cimmerian knew that he could not murder a young girl and – do what else this mad monster specified. No, if necessary he'd spend years travelling to and through Stygia, to gain a sword of iron. Unless he found some way of turning Hisarr Zul's own evil back on the mage. That alone was promising; that alone seemed possible; yet it gave Conan little hope.

  'And my own soul?'

  'It is not important to me! I must have rest! Hisarr must die!'

  'I vow on my mother by the gods my people swore by that I shall do all I can to slay him, Tosya Zul, and give you peace. But I want peace while I live. I want my body and my soul united!'

  The sand-lich reared, shuddered, grew. 'I can kill you, little man!'

  'I have no doubt of it, great wizard, as I stand here with no means of slaying you. But I am your best means of gaining peace. Aid me in overtaking him, and I will keep my vow. When you have told me how to regain my soul.'

  'From him! He can return it to you in moments! Or by wrapping the mirror that imprisons it in the same tresses I have stated will kill him, and burying it thus wrapped in earth on which your blood falls. And by the simple means of causing a crowned person to break the mirror. For there is power in all those who rule, power that few of them know.'

  'Then I must regain it from Hisarr himself, for I see no likelihood of holding converse with rulers of nations, and asking favours of them!'

  'It is of no concern to me, man of... who are you?'

  'I am Conan, a Cimmerian.'

  'Why have you not told me? Never mind. Go now, and slay Hisarr Zul, accursed of all gods!'

  You have frightened off both my horses and with them all my water and food. Hisarr is already over these hills -for none uses this pass, now – and out on the desert to the south. I can never overtake him afoot.'

  'There is an oasis but a day or two south of here, is there not? I remember dimly... ah, ye gods, what anguish is mine!'

  'Yes!' Conan said hurriedly.

  'Then it is he who shall overtake you, Coner of Simmon! For ten long years have I languished here dead but not dead, seizing on all who came in hopes that each is Hisarr at last! Now-now, Conum of Simmern, you can avenge yourself and give me rest. Take a good grip on your sword. Take several breaths and a good deep one and
hold it! And close your eyes!'

  The sand-lich of the haunted gorge was a raving madman, a pitiful thing — and yet Conan knew he was both a murderous monster-and a mage. He sheathed his sword and clamped his hand on its grip. He breathed hard, in and out, expanding his lungs, and sucked in a great breath. Holding it, he closed his eyes.

  All around him then rose a sandstorm, and it rose, until it was a howling blinding fearsome horror that bore him up as though he were weightless, so that he clung to sword and breath and sanity and knew that he was being borne through the air at a hurtling speed. And he was. He was riding a sandstorm created by the master of the sand, and who was dead.

  His belly floated within him and he fought back bile that would make him gasp for breath when there was only clogging, stinging, enfolding sand all about him, encompassing him and bearing him, like some grainy sorcerous cloak that formed wings for his transport.

  The wind died then, or whatever force the sorcerous lich used to propel his sand, and gritty grains ceased to sting the Cimmerian's abraded hands and face, and he was dumped to the ground. And he smelled water.

  As though from the dimmest reaches of the cold dark separating the world of life from that of death, Conan felt the words in his brain: So you reach the oasis ahead of him, and lie in wait! And so I am exhausted, and

  The mind-voice of Tosya Zul faded from his brain, and the sandstorm was gone, and Conan lay in grass with the scent of fresh water in his nostrils.

  VII. Isparana of Zamboula

  For a long while Conan lay gasping and wondering. At last he lifted his head, and saw shade, and grass. Slender palms stood sentinel over a sizeable oasis that seemed to grow out of a large rock outcropping on an otherwise featureless terrain. Conan lay near the reed-edged water, which was a fair-sized pond.

  Did I dream?

  No; he had ridden into the Gorge of the sand-lich; his horses were gone; he was well south, and in a large oasis. That one the Samaratan had said lay less than two days title from the Dragon Hills? He did not know. He could not be sure. He hoped so, and so he believed. Tosya Zul had presumably referred to the same oasis as had Arsil of Samara.