Conan stood on the boulder's crest, watching the flame-wall move away.
It rolled swiftly toward the mouth of the gorge, expanding and contracting to fill the defile. When it reached the end of the little canyon, it faded swiftly from view. The fearsome, ear-filling roar dwindled away to silence. The barbarian saw that three bandits had escaped the gorge and now rode intently away from the butte. Two of the men shared a single mount. None turned to look behind them.
Six brigands lay dead on the floor of the canyon. Their bodies were twisted and contorted as though they had died in terrible pain. There was not a mark upon any of them.
Conan clenched his jaw, feeling the barbarian's instinctive fear of the supernatural welling up in him even as his battle-hardened sensibilities rebelled at the cruel power of Zelandra's sorcery. He glanced down to where the sorceress had stood at the base of the boulder and saw that she now sat cross-legged in the dust, her head in her hands. As he looked on, Heng Shih approached Zelandra and knelt at her side, bending his head to hers.
The Cimmerian lowered himself to the boulder's edge and dropped over it, landing lightly beside the sprawled corpse of the brigand he had broken his sword in slaying. The man still clutched a scimitar. Conan took the weapon from his stiffening fingers and the leather scabbard from his bloody belt. The scimitar was of mediocre workmanship, yet its design was agreeable enough. The blade was curved, but not so much as to make it impractical for thrusting. It was not a broadsword, but it would have to serve.
When he turned, Zelandra was standing again, embraced by Neesa. Heng Shih approached him with a wide grin, his silken kimono bright and incongruously festive in the sun. The Khitan's hands went through a quick sequence of motions, ending by seizing Conan by the upper arms and giving him a vigorous shake. The Cimmerian pulled free of the smiling Knit an.
'He gives you thanks for saving our lives,' said Neesa. The Cimmerian grunted in embarrassment, looking off down the gorge. Heng Shih slapped him on the shoulder and turned back to Zelandra, who stood leaning weakly against the boulder. Her posture spoke of enormous weariness.
The Khitan took her hand, and together they walked around the boulder to where the camels waited.
Neesa came to the barbarian where he stood affixing the looted sword and scabbard to his belt.
'I shouldn't have killed that man, should I?' she said. Her dark eyes sought his. 'If you had time to bargain, perhaps
'Hell,' grinned Conan, suddenly glad to be alive. 'They had no intention of letting us go. You heard those dogs howl when they caught a glimpse of you. You don't think that I'd have traded you for safe passage, do you?'
'No,' she said, and lifted her lips to his.
XXIII
The riders allowed their horses, weary and lathered with foam, to stop and rest at the Caravan Road. Neb-Khot lowered himself awkwardly from the mount he shared with T'Cura, lit upon his twisted ankle and swore savagely.
'Yog and Erlik! That was a close thing, brothers.'
T'Cura eased off his horse and stood holding the reins while the third survivor remained mounted. The third was one of the archers, his bow now in place over his right shoulder. He was a young Shemite, his shock of black hair in sharp contrast to the pale flesh of his face.
'Telmesh was right,' he panted, wiping his brow with a dirty sleeve.
'They weren't human. Did you see the black-haired one knock my shaft from the air?'
'Be still, Nath,' groaned Neb-Khot. He gave in to the pain in his ankle and sat down heavily on the hot, hard-packed earth of the Caravan Road.
The sun, just past its median, blazed down. It was still early afternoon. The Stygian chieftain marveled that the illfated pursuit of the travelers and the destruction of his band had taken so little time.
'I need a horse,' he declared to no one in particular.
T'Cura was drinking noisily from a waterskin, still gripping the reins of his mount with one hand. He lowered the skin and studied his chieftain in a bemused fashion. The archer, Nath, shifted nervously in his saddle, looking back out across the shimmering expanse of the desert.
'The horses scattered, Neb-Khot,' said Nath. 'We'll never find one for you now.'
'It's a long way to Sibu's oasis. And farther still to Bel-Phar,'
growled T'Cura.
'Ishtar.' Neb-Khot rubbed his wounded ankle gingerly. 'Give some of that water to your horse, T'Cura. The beast will need it to carry us both back to Sibu's.'
The Darfari said nothing. He put the waterskin to his lips and took a long, deliberate pull. Lowering it, he looked upon Neb-Khot and bared his filed teeth in a cold and mirthless smile. Then he shoved the waterskin into a saddlebag with a single contemptuous motion.
Nath's gaze moved from T'Cura to his chieftain and back again, growing ever more apprehensive. Neb-Khot noticed none of this. His fingers probed his wounded ankle while his mind dwelt on this sudden reversal of fortune. He looked up to see that the Darfari had remounted his horse and was now stroking the polished blade of his unsheathed scimitar. For the first time it occurred to Neb-Khot that his luck might have deserted him completely.
'Look!' cried Nath, his voice breaking. 'A rider!'
Neb-Khot twisted around, coming to his knees on the hard road. It was true. A single horseman had come into view on the road along the far flank of the ridge. His form rippled liquidly in the haze of heat, a small black mark on the ruddy, sun-blasted landscape; but it was clear that he rode the Caravan Road alone.
'Hah,' grinned Neb-Khot, getting to his feet. 'The gods haven't forgotten me after all. T'Cura, bring me that fool's horse and I'll give you fifty pieces of gold.'
The Darfari eyed his leader with a look of amused disbelief writ upon his dark features. Then he shook his head and spat in the dust.
'Julian must love you, Neb-Khot,' he said, and spurred his horse forward, toward the approaching horseman.
The Stygian chieftain laid a hand on the lathered neck of Nath's mount as they watched T'Cura rapidly close on the lone rider.
'Should I began the archer.
'No,' said Neb-Khot firmly. 'Stay here with me and make ready an arrow.' Nath did as he was told, setting a shaft to string.
As they watched, T'Cura confronted the horseman, flourishing his sword threateningly in the brilliant sunlight. The traveler's mount seemed very weary, its head hanging, but it kept plodding toward them even as T'Cura accosted its rider. The Darfari's voice rang commandingly, the words indistinct and distant but unmistakable in intent. The horseman, wrapped in a voluminous caftan, did nothing, and his mount continued unperturbed in its slow, steady gait.
Neb-Khot licked dry lips. Was the man mad?
With a furious cry, T'Cura thrust his blade at the traveler's breast.
What happened next occurred with such speed that neither Nath nor Neb-Khot could immediately grasp it. The rider's left hand lashed out, literally slapping aside T'Cura's killing thrust, and then shot out to seize the Darfari by the throat. T'Cura's blade fell to the road and his horse shied away, pulling from beneath its rider and leaving him dangling at the end of an arm as rigid as the bar of a gallows.
'Mitra save us,' gasped Nath.
Impossibly, the rider held T'Cura out at arm's length, kicking, and then gave him a powerful shake. The Darfari's thrashing limbs went abruptly lax, and he was released. He fell in a limp heap on the road as the horseman continued toward Neb-Khot and Nath at the same deliberate pace.
'Oh, Mitra! Mitra!' cried Nath hysterically.
'Be still!' shouted Neb-Khot, slapping the mounted man's leg. 'Shoot the dog! Loose, damn it!'
The archer shook with fear, but drew and released with ease born of years' practice. The arrow flew true, slapping into the centre of the rider's breast. The man lurched in his saddle with the impact, but stayed mounted. His horse maintained its leisurely gait.
'Excellent,' said Neb-Khot. 'Now again!'
Nath mechanically drew and loosed another arrow, which found its mark beside the first.
The rider was jolted once again, but remained in the saddle as the horse came to within a dozen paces and slowed to a halt.
'Gods,' breathed Neb-Khot, 'what manner of man have we slain?'
Putting his bow back over a shoulder, Nath drew his scimitar and spurred forward, cautiously approaching the horseman.
Seen up close, the horse was in terrible condition. White foam dripped from slack jaws while its sides heaved in the last extremity of exhaustion. Spurs had torn bloody marks in its flanks and its legs quivered unsteadily beneath the weight of its rider. The man's appearance was obscured by his dust-caked caftan, which was nailed to his broad chest by Nath's arrows. He sat his mount with the breathless silence of the dead.
Nath's horse snorted suddenly, but the Shemite jerked at the reins, pulling it up beside the lifeless rider. The archer poked at the horseman with the point of his scimitar, thinking to shove him from the saddle.
The dead man's hand knocked aside Nath's blade and swung back around in an arc of incredible speed. A fist like the head of a mace cracked into the side of Nath's skull, bowling him off of his horse and sending him sprawling unconscious in the dust.
The horseman swung a leg over his saddle and dismounted. Neb-Khot drew his sword without thinking. Then he was struck motionless, his limbs seeming to lock up in helpless horror. The rider had caught the reins of Nath's horse with one hand and was drawing one of the arrows out of his chest with the other. The shaft came out slowly and with a thick, grating rasp, as though it were being pulled from a wooden beam afflicted with dry rot. Bloodlessly, the arrow was removed and discarded. When the rider grasped at the second arrow, Neb-Khot's reason broke.
'Die, demon!' The Stygian chieftain stumbled forward, bringing his sword down in an overhand cut that should have cleft the crown of the rider's head. But his twisted ankle gave way beneath his weight even as the horseman sidestepped the attack. Neb-Khot fell awkwardly on the road, gravel scoring his palms as he caught himself.
There was no time to recover, to strike upward at his nemesis, or even to roll away. A knee came down solidly in the middle of Neb-Khot's back. A cold hand locked onto each shoulder, iron fingers sinking into his flesh. Struggling, the Stygian was bent backwards with monstrous, irresistible strength.
Gulbanda spoke a single word, then snapped Neb-Khot's spine.
XXIV
Zelandra's band of travelers traversed the waste beneath a molten sun.
Conan led them unerringly across the desert's level floor, over red earth baked by centuries of ceaseless heat until it was the consistency of brick. As the long miles passed, the stony solidity of the soil gave way to crumbling gravel, and then to shifting sand.
The party crested a low rise, and drew to a halt at the Cimmerian's command. Ahead stretched an ocean of rolling dunes, a seemingly endless expanse of ochre sand that reached for the shimmering horizon, raked by the sunlight of late morning and dappled by black shadow. A single band of cloud, burnt transparent by the sun, moved upon the blank blue slate of the sky. 'Here the true desert begins,' said the barbarian. 'Any sane caravan would traverse the dune sea only at night, but we are in haste and have no time for comforts. Drink sparingly. I doubt I'll be able to find another source of water until we've crossed the dunes and reached the highlands.'
Zelandra bent in her saddle, digging a hand into her baggage. The sorceress produced a worn tube of pale leather, from which she drew a roll of yellowed parchment. Thrusting the tube beneath an arm, Zelandra unrolled the scroll for Conan to see.
'This is an ancient map of this part of Stygia,' she explained. 'I found it before we left. It dates back to the days of Old Stygia, and shows the city of Pteion and its environs. I doubt that the map will be of much use, but I noticed that it depicted an oasis near the eastern highlands. Do you think it might still be there, Conan?'
The barbarian squinted at the map, lifting a thick forearm to shade his eyes. 'It may be. I have heard of an old oasis in the dune sea, though not from anyone who claimed to have seen it with his own eyes. This part of the world is wisely avoided by most. Only men who wish to travel in secrecy cross these sands.' Conan nudged his camel forward, and the travelers started down the gentle slope into the dunes.
Neesa pulled her hood over her tousled locks and said, 'Do the caravans fear becoming lost amid the trackless sand? travelling by night, as you say, could they not steer by the stars?'
'They fear losing their way, as they fear the heat and the absence of water, but they also fear the slumbering sorcery of the dead city of Pteion. These sands are said to be accursed.'
'We are not going near Pteion,' put in Zelandra. 'We shall skirt its evil rains by many miles. Your barbaric superstitions do you little credit, Conan. These sands are no more accursed than the grassy hills of Shem.'
The Cimmerian made no reply. His blue eyes smoldered against his bronzed face as he scanned the horizon uneasily.
As the party rode into the sea of sand, the sun lifted into the sky and seemed to halt there, suspended in the heavens like a torch in a sconce. The camels laboured over the dunes steadily, if unenthusiastically, occasionally snorting and moaning their distaste for the task.
Neesa followed Conan's example and draped herself in her cloak so that not an inch of skin was exposed to the merciless sun. Closing her eyes against the glare, she settled back in the swaying saddle and tried to doze. Between the movement of the camel and the steady creaking of her gear, she could almost imagine herself back on the deck of Temoten's ferry. A cry from Zelandra snapped the scribe back into full awareness.
'Look there! Is that not a palm?' The sorceress stood in her stirrups at the crest of a tall dune. 'Conan, is that our oasis?'
The barbarian pulled at his mount's reins, urging the camel up the dune's face until he was at Zelandra's side. Heng Shih pointed to the southeast, where a fleck of emerald glimmered in the haze of heat.
'It looks like it,' agreed Conan, 'though it is» nowhere near where it is shown on your map.'
Zelandra's high brows knitted in impatience. 'Well, one could hardly expect the oasis to be in exactly the same position after the passage of so many centuries. Let us go fill our waterskins and lounge in the shade for a time. It will do us all good.'
The Cimmerian said nothing, and the travelers turned from their trail.
The distant palms beckoned, wavering like a green flame on the face of the desert. Conan watched the palms draw nearer, coming into view as his camel slogged up a dune, then dropping from sight as his mount descended into the valleys between each hill of sand. Unlike his civilised companions, the barbarian had never learned to distrust or disregard his instincts. He was troubled by a vague and creeping unease.
The terrain altered as the party proceeded. The dunes flattened, and the sand became a hardened skin that crunched beneath their camels'
feet! Conan stared at the oasis, now close enough for him to discern lazily swaying palms and the thick cluster of ground vegetation that marked the location of the waterhole. His nostrils flared.
'Something is amiss,' said the barbarian. 'The oasis appears green, yet I smell no water.'
'For the love of Ishtar, Conan, would you attempt to contain your barbarian superstitions?' Zelandra sounded exasperated. 'Pteion is many miles away. This oasis is a blessing that we shall not overlook. We¦'
A wave of beat rolled over the travelers. Though the sky was clear, the sun brightened as if it had emerged from behind a thick wall of clouds.
Ahead, the oasis blurred like a waking dream, its outlines softening in the harsh glare. The brightness made Conan squint and look down. He saw that he rode over a hardened surface of solidified sand. The sculpted dunes had flattened into an uneven plain of fused glass. The ground resembled the congealed bottom of a glass-blower's forge. Conan jerked his camel to a halt, looked up, and saw that the oasis had vanished.
Where the palms and brush had been was now a stout, flat-topped cone of dark stone, standing almost as tall as a man. Its deep grey
hue contrasted sharply with the ochre tones of the desert. The sands around the cone were frozen in concentric whorls of fused glass. It sat at the centre of a mile-wide spiral of seared sand, like a grey spider in a web of brittle stone. The earth around it was strewn with dark debris.
A sheet of white fire rippled across the sky, and a cry went up from the party. The camels bellowed and stumbled as the air itself seemed to turn to flame. Conan dismounted, seizing the reins of his reeling mount, and pulled away from the false oasis.
'Come away!' he roared. 'Sorcery!'
The heat intensified incredibly, dazzling their eyes and searing their skin. Heng Shih and Neesa could not control their mounts. The camels reared and staggered, with their riders pulling at the reins in vain.
Conan saw Zelandra jump awkwardly from her saddle and fall, rolling on the ground beside her camel's stamping feet.
'Dismount!' bellowed the barbarian. 'Leave the camels and flee or we'll be cooked in our skins!' Neesa and Heng Shih tried to obey as Zelandra scrambled away from her frenzied mount. Conan moved to help her. Hell seemed to swallow them all.
Blinding white fire filled the air. Breathing scorched the lips and tongue. The Cimmerian reached for Zelandra, and saw the sleeve of his burnoose was smouldering along the full length of his arm. Blisters sprang up on the back of his exposed hand.
'No!' shouted the sorceress, 'Stand away from me!' Conan stepped back, and Zelandra knelt, lifting her hands to the incandescent sky.
'Dar-Asthkoth la Ithaqua!' her voice wailed. 'Brykal Ithaqua Ftagn!'
The sky immediately lost much of its brilliance, and the heat waned.
Conan threw back the hood of his burnoose and looked about wildly. The acrid stench of burnt cloth filled the hot, still air. Heng Shih had been hurled from his camel's back. He rose from all fours, and limped to the side of his mistress. The Khitan drew his scimitar, as if his blade might protect Zelandra from the unnatural heat. Neesa had stayed in her saddle and succeeded in calming her mount, while the remainder of the camels milled about in a state of near panic.
The Conan Chronology Page 289