May Mitra protect us!" His hands were shaking again. He refilled a cup with water, dumped the contents of another phial into it, then gulped the brew down.
Conan and Yvanna looked at him dubiously, wondering if the man had gone mad. What ancient evil was he raving about? Conan found it hard to believe that Hassem was anything more than a lying, low-life thief.
"The yellow scum has probably fled for Zamora by now. What is this evil you speak of? How can you sense its presence so, just by touching the bauble?"
"Priests of Mitra are instructed, even in early stages of their indoctrination, to recognize the signs and traces that mark the enemies of light. Later they develop sensitivity to objects, or even to places, that diabolical creatures have been near. Stronger evil leaves marks that are easier to detect. We call these marks an 'aura.' They are invisible to the naked eye and are felt only when the object or place is touched. Just as a skilled woodsman may identify a particular animal by the odor of its spoor, so may a skilled priest learn to distinguish among the different auras of evil and identify a particular enemy.
Priests who are confined to temples often lose this ability, since they seldom confront such malefic creatures directly.
"Although I am considered young by the standards of the priesthood, I have witnessed more spawn of evil than many a graybeard who stays within the safe walls of his temple. I tell you, this bracelet has been touched by a malevolence that I have not seen before, but I sense its oppressive weight, its desire to maim and destroy, its hatred for all living creatures. Perhaps through prayer, the Holy Father will see fit to tell me more about it. If he does not, then it is his will that I am involved no further. I must leave you now, but I caution you: beware of Hassem! He may be only a pawn in a game of evil, but he has become involved with the forces of darkness. Be careful that you, too, are not entangled in this web so deeply that you cannot get out."
Madesus's voice had begun to rise, and he emphasized the last with a loud rap of his iron-shod staff. Rising to his feet, he picked up his worn sack and carefully repacked it, then wrapped the bracelet in white cloth and dropped it within.
Conan took the warning lightly, believing little of the healer's talk of auras and webs of evil. These intangible, priestly affairs would not distract him. His business was with Hassem, a man of flesh and blood.
Flesh that could be pierced with steel, and blood that would spill. Let this lunatic chase his crazy delusions of evil plots at work in the city, as long as he did not interfere with Conan's mission of vengeance. He nodded good-bye to the healer and strapped his sword to his belt, marveling at how much better his wrist felt.
The healer was right, and Conan knew that he would have to be careful.
Guards would be stationed at all the gates, looking for him. This might work to his advantage, since there would be fewer guards left to search for him in the inner city, where he planned to start hunting the sly swindler. Yvanna had told him last night that a large reward had been posted for leading the guard to the bracelet, a reward that the Zamoran thief would try to collect. Conan would watch the entrance to the palace from a place of concealment. Yvanna would listen for news of the incident; there was bound to be talk at the Golden Lion, as rumors traveled more quickly in the city than the scurrying of an alley rat.
Conan stared silently, reflecting on the strange healer's words, while Yvanna prepared a meal of stewed spiced meat, goat's cheese, and thick-crusted shepherd's bread.
Having declined Yvanna's offer to dine with them, Madesus wandered absentmindedly toward the oldest and poorest of the city's three temples that were devoted to the worship of Mitra. He was certain that Conan had withheld some of the truth, but he doubted that the barbarian had any thing to do with the evil he had sensed while touching the bracelet.
Unfortunately, the two had not taken his warnings seriously. He would have to investigate further and find the source of this evil; although he was no longer considered a priest by the clergy of Mitra, it was his responsibility not to turn away from evil and pretend it was not there.
Wherever he found it, he felt compelled to face it, though it might mean his doom. This he had learned from his mentor, Kaletos, years ago in Corinthia, in a final conversation that still burned in his mind.
"Hear my words, Madesus, and pray to Mitra that you never need make use of them. For there is great evil in the world, and not all of it in the hearts of men. Indeed, man himself is not born to evil, but turned to it. You may slay an evil man, but you will not destroy the evil that was in him. The accursed serpent-god Set is truly evil, and is but one of many ancient powers of dark malice that slither and crawl in the bowels of the earth. These forces never die; they may sleep for centuries, eventually awakening to spread their wickedness among men.
Weak, greedy men will heed their false words and promises. Such men are food for evil, and when they have been consumed, they are tossed aside, but too late to see the folly of their ways.
"Some men are destined to seek the true evil that corrupts men, and destroy it. My master was one who sought out and destroyed evil, and I sense that this is your fate, too. On his deathbed, my master gave me an amulet and taught me the prayers to invoke its powers against evil.
Now, Madesus, I give it to you; I advise you to utter the prayers only in a time of great need. You have chosen a path not taken by many. On this path, you cannot be a priest of Mitra, at least not in the traditional sense. Leave this temple and go forth. Seek the evil that awaits you and banish it forever from the face of the earth. But do not neglect your duty to man, or forget the arts of healing I have taught you. The amulet will not respond to one who uses it for his own ends, so your motives always must be for the greater good. I will pray to Mitra for you, and you will always be welcome in his temples."
Madesus had left Corinthia over three years ago, hoping that one day he would return to tell Kaletos of his travels since they had parted. He knew that his master had been right; it was not his destiny to remain a priest of the temple in Corinthia, but instead, to be a foe of the sort of evil that men could not defend themselves against, with their weapons of iron and steel.
Through his travel-worn robes, he fingered the seven-pointed star of the amulet that hung from his neck. He could sense that the trail of evil he had followed ended here, in the city. By happenstance or by unseen intervention, he had been guided here. The bracelet was his link to the evil; he would find out where the malevolence lurked and hunt it down. His face was grim as he walked up the steps leading into the temple.
"Halt! You therehhalt, I say!" an armored guard bellowed, pointing as he drew his straight, double-edged sword.
Conan threw him a murderous glance, then turned to look quickly down the alley. It was blocked by the fallen rubble of a run-down building.
He had been moving carefully in the general direction of the palace, staying off the main streets as much as possible. Until now, he had not even seen a patrol. He doubted he could clear the wall of rubble before the guard would be upon him. There were no side doors or windows in this alley to duck into. Just as well, he thought, drawing his sword.
If these fools wanted to capture him, he would show them just how difficult it could be. He spun around and rushed toward the approaching guard. As he neared the man, he recognized Lieutenant Ekkar, a patron of the Golden Lion.
Surprised, clearly expecting Conan to flee, Ekkar stopped and dropped into a fighting stance. Behind him, the other members of the patrol drew their blades. Unlike their leader, they wore only leather jerkins and iron caps.
"Hold! I do not wish to slay you. I was accused falsely and have done nothing!" Conan shouted.
"Do not waste your breath on me, barbarian! Save your lies for the captain. If you will not throw down your sword and come freely, my men and I will cut you down now."
"Throw it down? I would sooner bury it in your craven guts, dog!"
Snarling, the lieutenant moved closer, with the cautious stance of an experienced sword
sman. He raised his blade and beat it against Conan's, lunging in for a quick kill. He may as well have beaten it against a stone wall. Conan knocked the guard's blade aside and extended his own point in a thrust that nearly impaled the onrushing man. Instead, the sharp steel tore away a large section of the lieutenant's mail armor as he leaped backward, recovering. Conan could see the fear creeping into his foe's expression. Still, the guard held his stance, moving warily, trying to draw Conan out. One of the men behind him raised his sword and began moving in, but the alley was too narrow for more than one to have fighting room.
Chest heaving, Ekkar shouted a few orders. "Felg, send for more men!
Jourand, circle around to the other side of the alley!"
Then he retreated two steps, his blade raised to meet an attack. Conan knew that if he did not cut through him, the alley would soon be overrun with guards. Flexing his mighty sword-arm, he chopped at the upraised blade with all his strength. The outmatched lieutenant's blade snapped, ringing loudly as Conan's sword hewed through it, the vest of mail, and several ribs. Ekkar went down, knocked backward by the force of the blow, blood spurting from the gaping wound in his chest. His mouth opened as if to say something, but the words were drowned in a flood of thick red blood.
Felg and Jourand rushed in, stepping over the grisly corpse of their fallen leader. One of them slashed at Conan with a wide-bladed curved knife, while the other swung at his head with a long scimitar. Ducking under the cut to his head, Conan lashed out, knocking the curved knife aside and disemboweling Felg. Parrying clumsily, Jourand backed off, almost slipping on the coils of Felg's spilled intestines.
Pressing the attack, Conan made a feint, then a cut at his opponent's unprotected flank. Razor-sharp steel sliced easily through the leather jerkin, passing deep into the guard's body. Jourand screamed and dropped his scimitar as Conan wrenched his blade from the man's side.
The guard went down, clutching futilely at the gout of blood spewing from the ghastly wound.
Conan shook the dripping gore from his sword and glanced quickly over his shoulder to see if anyone was coming up behind him. Seeing no one, he scrambled up the rubble and down over the other side, hearing shouts from behind him. More damned guards! He ran at full speed down the alley, hoping to lose them. The route curved to the right and ended less than ten feet away in a high brick wall with no windows. The only possible exit was a stout wooden door, braced with thick, iron-bolted metal bars, each bar as long as his arm.
Without hesitating, Conan sped up and kicked the portal with all his strength. It rattled in its frame, creaking, the metal bars bending slightly. He backed up and charged it again, slamming into it shoulder-first with a bone-jarring thud. The wood cracked, and one of the iron bolts popped out as the metal bar bent further. He grabbed the bar and heaved, cords standing out on his brawny arms. Slowly, the thick iron pulled away from the door, succumbing to the awesome pressure. A second bolt popped out, then another. Only two bolts remained when the first of the reinforcements rounded the corner.
"Crom!" Conan swore as with a final effort, he wrenched the bar off the door and swung it like a club at the approaching guard.
The man went down without uttering a sound, his skull crushed. Conan hurled the bar like a spear at another guard, then picked up his sword, yelling out a bloodcurdling Cimmerian war cry. The makeshift spear struck its target in the abdomen, its momentum knocking the man backward into his companions. Meanwhile, wearing mailed armor, more guards rounded the corner. One was fitting an arrow into his short bow.
Seeing the futility of rushing headlong into a storm of arrows, Conan took advantage of the guards' entanglement and gave the door another solid kick. The jamb snapped away from the inside, and the door fell in with a noisy crash. Conan swore in frustration as he saw that the place was a warehouse, filled from floor to ceiling with huge barrels of wine.
He pulled one of the barrels down and grabbed hold of it by both ends.
With his mighty thews bulging from the strain of its weight, he heaved it over his head, then hurled it with all his might at the oncoming guards. The heavy missile landed full on three of them, crushing them instantly and knocking several others to the ground. It burst open, its wooden slats popping free of the restraining iron bands. Cheap wine splashed everywhere, dousing the guards. Conan rolled several more barrels out into the alley, effectively blocking the way.
Retreating inside, he crawled across the top of the barrels, reached the front of the warehouse, and dropped to the floor, peering out into the street through one of the cracked, dirty windows. He saw more guards rushing toward the entrance to the alley. Well, he had no choice but to chance it; if he could not outrun them, he would send as many as he could to hell before they cut him down. As he braced himself to kick the front door open, he felt a faint draft of air across his foot, coming from a seam in the wooden floor.
Pushing a barrel aside, he saw that a trapdoor had been cleverly concealed in the floor. It must lead outside somehow, or else he would not have felt the draft. Digging his sword-point into the seam, he flipped the door up and peered into the hole below. Crude rungs along the side led down into a dark pit, but the air was not musty, though it smelled faintly of sewage.
As if deciding the matter for him, the front door rattled on its hinges and he could hear the shouts of more guards approaching from the rear, grunting and cursing as they heaved themselves onto the barrels. He dragged a barrel toward him and descended into the hole, concealing the trapdoor with it as much as he could. Under the door's thick wood, a stout iron bolt could be drawn to prevent entry from above. The bolt clanked as Conan shot it home. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the darkness beyond.
From below, a faint glint of light was visible. He tested each rung carefully as he climbed down the narrow shaft. The trapdoor must have been unused for years, judging by the thick cobwebs he brushed aside on his descent. The webs' multilegged occupants scurried away from the intruding human. He reached the bottom and saw that the shaft led to an apparently idle tunnel in the city's sewer. The light he had seen came from a rusted grate in the street above. A far-off smell assailed his nostrils, and he heard the faint squeak of rats from farther down the sewage tunnel. He felt a tickle at the back of his neck and brushed at it, shuddering when he realized that his upper body was crawling with spiders. He wiped them off and stamped on them, getting bitten by a few in the process. The bites stung, but they were too small to be more than an annoyance. The blasted creatures infested this accursed tunnel!
Needing no further incentive, Conan decided to trust his sense of direction and went down the passage that he hoped led toward the palace. The guards would not be able to follow him if he took enough turns in these sewage ducts to throw them off their pursuit. In fact, he had not even heard them trying to break into the trapdoor yet.
Exhilarated by the battle, and feeling more hopeful, the Cimmerian wound his way through the old tunnels beneath the city.
Four
King Eldran
King Eldran wiped the sweat from his pale forehead and peered into the mirror that hung on the wall of his simply furnished royal bedchamber.
What he saw displeased him. This morning, every one of his forty-five years could be seen in his furrowed brow and haggard face. Just last night, he had begun to feel the first stages of some sort of malady setting in; as a precaution, he had mixed a Kezankian herbal concoction to fortify himself against it and retired to his bed. Now he definitely felt worse.
He would have suspected poisoning, but after the recent attempt on his life, he had watched all of his food as it was prepared. Last night, he had even seen to the meat stew himself. Each of his guardsmen had eaten from the same platter; his preference and theirs was for the simple fare that he had eaten all his life. Indeed, his tastes usually ran toward the simpler aspects of lifehin his room, his garb, and his manner of rulership. This preference had lowered esteem for him in the eyes of many nobles, who viewed him as a crude boor, a goath
erd with a crown. However, he knew that his subjects loved him all the more for it. He was no silver-tongued diplomat, but he had an honest and straightforward way of speaking that appealed to most people.
In situations where protocol and flowery phrases were of great importance, he relied on the skills of Lamici, his chief eunuch. Lamici had long served the royal family in this capacity. Eldran personally cared little for the eunuch, who smiled too much and spoke too smoothly for his liking. Still, Lamici served well in his capacity, and his family had served the Brythunian monarchy for generations. Eldran looked out of his window at the rising sun. He judged from its position that the eunuch would soon be making his routine morning visit to discuss pressing matters of diplomacy.
Eldran rubbed at his face and blinked his eyes, trying to clear the haze that was setting in. If this feeling did not abate by midday, he would see a healer. He had endured many of the usual soldiers' ailments during the border wars. He hoped that he was not so old as to let a minor affliction wear him down, like a doddering beggar who complained of every creak in his aged joints.
He had been grieving over the recent loss of his only daughter, Elspeth. No doubt his grief had taken its toll. He could not help but feel responsible for her demise; she was the victim of some plot against himself. His rage at her death had dissipated, to be replaced by a terrible sense of loss, an emptiness. She had been so beautiful, just like her mother, Cassandra. It was a hard world that took a man's wife, only to take his daughter a few years later. He had eventually learned to live with the loss of his wife, to adapt by plunging himself deeper into his life as a soldier. Memories of Elspeth flashed through his mind's eyehher smile, her laughter, her golden-blonde hair and fiery temper. These were the memories he treasured.
The Conan Compendium Page 50