All three men froze in place as something in the doorway caught their attention. Even Balberoth's voice died on his bone-white lips. The shards of the bronze doors were rising from the floor, and the remaining pieces had detached themselves from the frame. Metal twisted and shifted before their eyes, changing into an increasingly familiar shape, and eventually melded into a single form. Before them stood a giant in bronze, with a profile similar to that of a human male, but crudely shaped and oddly proportioned, as if hastily chiseled from stone by some drunken sculptor.
The giant was over nine feet tall. Yellow-orange flames flickered in his eye sockets. He raised a bronze hand bigger than Conan's head and extended it toward the three men. He held the hand up, unbending the fingers slowly. Angular bronze lips parted, revealing teeth of red fire and a tongue of yellow-orange flame. A single word issued from this furnace-like orifice.
"STOP." The syllable boomed out like a searing blast of hot, desert wind, bringing beads of sweat to the faces of the three awestruck onlookers. Balberoth squinted and blinked, but said nothing.
The bronze giant took one stride forward into the room, his huge, squarish feet chipping the hard stone floor. Slowly his mouth opened and he spoke again. "I AM TARGOL."
Balberoth spared a quick glance at Madesus, then spoke to Conan and Kailash with apparent desperation. "Attack, fools! This is some trick of the priest, who would destroy thee with his treachery! Strike the priest down and this apparition will vanish!"
Kailash shook himself and took a step toward Madesus, swinging his sword savagely. With incredible speed for his size, the bronze giant caught the blade in his left hand, wrenching it from the hillman's grasp. That powerful hand crumpled and twisted the weapon as if it were a piece of straw. Expertly forged, hardened Nemedian steel was no match for Targol's awesome strength. The mangled blade fell to the floor with an echoing metallic clank.
The giant's fiery gaze fixed on Balberoth. "YOU HAVE DEFILED TARGOL'S
TEMPLE. YOU WILL CEASE TO EXIST." The words issued slowly from the mouth of fire, reverberating in the room. As they echoed, Balberoth burst into flames. The demon screamed as he was consumed in a column of smokeless, red-orange fire. When the screams and the fire died out, nothing remained of Balberoth but a small, greasy blue smear on the chamber floor.
Conan's mind cleared immediately, and he shook his head as if waking from a disorienting dream. He stared wide-eyed at the creature of bronze that stood before them, its eyes of flame flickering in the darkness. After a long pause, he found his voice. "Well done, Madesus!
Your amulet is powerful indeed! Why did you not summon up this giant earlier?"
Madesus said nothing in response. He continued to gape at the bronze titan in fascination, as if he had not even heard Conan speak.
Eventually his answer to the Cimmerian came out in a cracked whisper.
"My amulet has no such power. We stand before Targol himself!"
Kailash fell to his knees, turning away from the giant's face. Conan shuddered with superstitious dread, glad that Balberoth was gone, but wondering if Targol would do away with them next. Madesus looked as if he was about to say something, when the misshapen giant spoke again.
"LEAVE THIS PLACE IN PEACE. TARGOL HAS NO QUARREL WITH YOU."
Madesus cleared his throat nervously. "My companions and I thank you, mighty Targol. We will do as you say. But if I may ask, have you destroyed the Mutare priestess, or only the demon she summoned?"
Madesus's voice sounded small and faint in comparison to Targol's.
Conan and Kailash looked at him as if he had gone mad. Targol simply stood there, his fiery mouth still open, ignoring the priest's question. After a long, silent pause, his deep voice thundered again.
"SHE HAS FLED TO THE SHAN-E-SORKH. SHE IS OF NO CONCERN TO TARGOL. YOU
WILL LEAVE THIS PLACE. COME BACK NO MORE."
Conan and Kailash needed no further urging. As they fled the room, the hillman glanced wistfully at the remains of his sword, lying on the floor beside the giant's feet. Conan clapped a huge hand on Madesus's shoulder, propelling him toward the doorway. The bronze effigy stood aside, letting them pass through the doors. The corridor's macabre red carpeting muffled the sound of their footsteps. Madesus looked over his shoulder for a final glimpse of Targol, but all he saw was the bronze door, no longer in pieces on the floor. It shut behind them, looking exactly as it had when they had first seen it. The priest shook his head and hastened to catch up with his companions.
They slowed to a half-run without speaking among themselves, quickly reaching the steep stone stairway leading into the auditorium above.
Conan went up first, climbing out into the huge chamber. Minutes later, all three stood in the temple, looking around. Conan observed that the bronze backs he had torn from the benches were back in place, as were the bronze handles on the back of the temple doors. However, the temple doors were no longer closed. They were wide open, beckoning them to leave.
Outside, the afternoon sky was bright, though none of the sun's rays shone directly through the open doors. When the last of them had stepped through, the doors slid shut with a resounding crash. Startled, they jumped at the sound. The Cimmerian breathed a sigh of relief, glad to be out of the strange temple. Kailash immediately fired questions at Madesus, wanting to know more about Targol and Balberoth.
"Why did he destroy the demon, yet spare us?" the hillman asked, still confused by the giant's actions. "Conan did more damage to the temple than Balberoth did!"
"There is ancient enmity between Targol and the Demon Lords," the priest replied absently. "Yog, a Demon Lord worshiped by the people of Darfar, was Targol's worst enemy of old. Yog was a fierce demon of the Elder Night; some say the most powerful. In Zamboula, where the worship of Yog became most popular, the Yoggite hierarch tried to drive all other religions out of the area. Several centuries ago, on one bloody night, the priests of Targol were captured and marched to a pit of Yog, where their hearts were cut out and eaten by the Yoggites in a sacrificial ceremony. Stories are still told of that grim ritual of butchery, when the moonlight glinted redly as hundreds were slaughtered, filling the pit with blood.
"The next day, the sharp-toothed priests of Yog disappeared, even the hierarch. No trace of them was seen until the moon rose again that night. Their skeletal remains were found piled in the pit, still clad in their feathered robes and Khari finery. Terrible was Targol's vengeance, but futile. His temple in Zamboula fell into ruin, and eventually a new Yoggite priesthood was established. Texts of history agree that to this day, Targol bears a deadly grudge against Yog and his kind, but both are unwilling to confront each other directly.
Balberoth no doubt fell victim to this grudge."
"I have heard that no man can look upon the face of a god and live,"
Kailash stated solemnly, looking Madesus straight in the eye. "Yet we have done so."
"We may have, hillman, but we may have not," Madesus replied cryptically. "Little is known of Targol, and much of what is written about his appearance is contradictory. However, Targol's mastery over the elements of earth and fire has been hinted at by several scholars.
The bronze colossus we saw may have been a golem, crafted and animated by Targol to serve his purpose. As I said before, the gods prefer to avoid confrontation. For instance, Conan, your Cromh"
"This is no time for a lesson, priest," the Cimmerian interrupted, shifting his feet impatiently. "I know all I wish to know of Crom.
While we stand here prattling, our chances of finding this accursed priestess grow lesser and lesser. We have a task to finish!" He threw a murderous glance at Kailash, as if to warn him not to get the priest going again with further questions.
"Yes, of course," Madesus agreed. "You are quite right. Indeed, our task is now more difficult than ever. We must pursue the priestess to the Shan-e-Sorkh. Many leagues must we travel, to the desert wastes of eastern Shem. On horseback, the journey will take over a month."
"Ov
er a month!" Kailash exclaimed in dismay.
"Longer," Conan interjected. "Only a fool would take a horse into the waterless sands of the Shemitish desert. Even camels cannot survive there. We can ride to the southern borders of Khauran, but from there, we will have to continue on foot." He shook his head ponderously. "A few years ago, I was in a tavern, speaking with an old Nemedian campaigner. He had once journeyed to Sabatea, a Shemitish city near the Taian Mountains, just west of the Shan-e-Sorkh. Many times did he fill his wine cup when he spoke of this journey, and his hands shook. He had been escorting for a merchant caravan through the area. 'What the desert lacks in water, it makes up for in bandits,' he said."
Kailash snorted. "No bandit has ever crossed swords with the son of Kranarous and lived."
"The Nemedian's hands trembled not at the memory of the bandits, but of something else," the barbarian retorted. "The deserts of Shem are places of deaths forsaken entirely by the living. What the Nemedian had seen, he would not say. Anything that can strike terror in the hardened heart of a jaded Nemedian mercenary, we would do well to avoid. I propose we take a different route than his; let us cross the Kezankian Mountains to the east, avoiding Corinthia, Zamora, and Koth. If we follow the mountains southward, we will find the trade road leading from Khauran to Zamboula. We can use the Taian Mountains for bearing. I have only one question, priest. The Shan-e-Sorkh is a vast area of desert. Where in it will we find our quarry?"
"An excellent question, Conan. I have a few questions of my own, more difficult to answer than yours. Why would she go there, and how did she get there so quickly? The traces of her presence I felt were very strong; they could not even have been a few days old. Yet, as you say, the journey takes a month. No doubt she has mastered translocation, another of the magical arts. Only those who wield incredible magical power can manage this feat. I did not anticipate that even she had such abilities. Still, I have an idea of where in the Shan-e-Sorkh she has gone. My master said that Skauraul, greatest of the vanquished Mutare, had dwelt in the land of Shem. Perhaps she has gone to the ruins of his palace, to seek something there, or to restore the palace and build her powers there."
"Even so, we do not know where these ruins lie," Conan pointed out.
'True enough; we do not know yet. However, all we need do is to come close. The sorcery that shielded the Mutare from me in Targol's temple will not shield her in the desert. We will head for the center of the region, until I feel some trace of her presence. Then we will know what direction to take."
"I will have horses and provisions prepared," Kailash added, looking ruefully at his empty sword-belt. "I also must find a new sword.
Hopefully, I will test its edge on bandit-necks."
They descended the temple steps and made their way past the nearby old buildings, quickly reaching the street. A few clouds had drifted into the path of the afternoon sun, and an autumn breeze whispered among the buildings, brushing them with cool fingers. Conan ignored the chill, thinking that the place to which they were headed would be more than warm enough.
The Cimmerian was calmer than Kailash about the impending journey.
Conan had traveled through many lands, from the icy, frozen tundra of the north to the sweltering jungles of the south. Each had its likeable and dislikable qualities. He called none of them home; even Cimmeria was homeland but not truly his home. His restless nature kept him constantly moving from land to land. Seldom did he ever return to Cimmeria. There he grew bored with the grim, gray mountains, ceaseless winter, and dull life-style.
His homeland had proven no less perilous than other countries he had traveled through. His kin were a fierce, warlike race, bearing grudges against enemy clans for uncounted centuries. No battle that Conan had fought in the lands of civilized men had been as savage and elemental as the clan-wars of Cimmeria. Nonetheless, the men of the south could be as cruel as their deserts.
Conan reached into his memory to recall details of the terrain they would soon encounter. For ease of navigation, he reckoned that the simplest course would follow the Kezankian Mountains south, until their craggy ridges and peaks gave way to the Mountains of Fire. This forbidding range along the northern border of Shem formed a barrier of land that few men would dare cross. They would have to avoid these mountains altogether by heading southeast for several days. Then the most difficult stretch of their trek would lie before them: the crossing of the Shemitish desert to its sunburnt heart, known to some as the Shan-e-Sorkh.
This godforsaken area was shunned by even the hardiest of Shemitish desert dwellers. Its endless leagues of hard-baked earth and waterless dunes of sand were the setting of many a grim campfire tale. Conan had oft heard soldiers spin yarns about their daring adventures in this desert land. If one believed every tale told, the place teemed with savage desert beasts, fierce, marauding nomads, and evil spirits haunting the crumbling stones of ruined castles. As superstitious as he was, Conan discounted many of the stories he heard as the boasting of soldiers inspired by excesses of cheap wine.
What Conan really hoped to find in the desert was the ruins of some forgotten palace, with its treasure-store intact. If he could fulfill his oath to Salvorus and fatten his purse in the process, so much the better. He had planned to journey south to Zamora anyway. When he arrived in Shadizar, he would have enough coin to do more with his nights than practice thievery. When all this was over, he would relish a few drunken evenings of wenching and debauchery.
Thinking cheerfully of Shadizar's flesh-pits, Conan moved with Madesus and Kailash. As if by unspoken agreement, the Cimmerian was now in charge of the expedition. Hillman and priest followed him quietly to the palace, where they would rest and prepare themselves for their arduous journey. Though each man had his own reasons for undertaking the quest, they were united in a single main purpose: to find and destroy the Mutare priestess.
Nearby, another man followed behind them, moving with silence that a panther would have envied. The man was wearing a lightweight cloak, with its dark-gray hood cast over his face. The cloak concealed his robes of powdery-blue silk, rustling softly like the scaly skin of serpents in an underground den. In the shadows beneath the hood, eyes colder than winter in Vanaheim dogged every step Conan and his companions made, and ears strained to hear their every word. Lamici's fanatical mind was bent on revenge. He cared not that they planned to travel south; he would follow them to the mouth of the River Styx and beyond, if necessary. For the good of Brythunia, he would strike down Madesus. The accursed priest had revived the false king and destroyed Lamici's dreams of bringing honor and respect back to his homeland.
Conan and Kailash had aided him, and they also deserved death; Lamici planned to deal with them, too.
The eunuch felt the reassuring weight of his deadly stiletto, its envenomed blade still strapped to his forearm. Soon, Lamici would sheath it in the priest's heart. The meddler could not hide behind the two warriors forever, Lamici reasoned grimly. When the moment of vulnerability came, the eunuch would be there, ready to strike.
Lamici's pale lips drew back tightly into a cruel smile, shadowed by a hood as gray as the clouds now filling the brooding sky.
Fourteen
Southbound
Eldran sat up slowly. Even this simple act was a difficult feat for him. He had awakened less than an hour ago, to find that the Mutare's death-spell had dreadfully weakened his body.
His mind, once as sharp as an Aquilonian sword, was now duller than a stone ax. He knew that his appearance was shocking, although he had not seen his face in a looking-glass. When his friends gazed upon him, their expressions told him as much as a looking-glass would have.
Even Kailash, standing before him, could not hide the pity he felt.
Eldran could see it in the corners of his friend's eyes and hear it in the edges of his voice. He was disgusted by his weakness. He prayed silently to Wiccana for quick restoration of his health, before word of his frailty could spread to neighboring kingdoms. If loose tongues wagged news
of his unstable health, the Nemedians and Hyperboreans would swoop down on Brythunia like buzzards, tearing at his people and snatching away pieces of their land. Shred by shred, they would pick apart the kingdom he was trying to bind together.
He pushed these depressing thoughts to the back of his mind. What had the hillman just said? He grimaced and spoke raspingly to his old comrade. "Forgive me, my friend. I cannot hold my thoughts together.
Please explain to me again why you must go south."
"Of course," Kailash said, gritting his teeth in frustration. He was outraged to see Eldran reduced to such a state. The priestess would pay for her misdeeds! Clearing his throat, he repeated his tale to Eldran.
To the king's credit, the hillman's account was jumbled, and even a man in full possession of his wits would have found the tale confusing.
However, with the help of Madesus and Conan, Eldran soon understood the events that had passed since he had fallen ill. Feebly, he held up a shaking hand to silence Kailash.
"I am indebted to all of you," he said, letting his hand drop to his lap. "And Salvorus's name shall be honored in the historian's chronicles henceforth. Yet this journey you plan will rob me of a chance to pay back my debts. Would that I had the strength to go in your place."
Eldran finished this declaration with a wracking cough that nearly doubled him over, causing Kailash to tense. Madesus simply offered an expression of quiet concern; he opened his mouth as if to speak, then quickly shut it, saying nothing.
Conan happened to be watching Madesus at that moment, when a realization struck him. The priest could do nothing further for Eldran, and his helplessness was frustrating him. Madesus had always come through when pitted against the magic of his enemies, although the priest's spells had been very selective, as if evoked at the whim of some unseen entity. Strange were the priests of Mitra. The Cimmerian was looking forward to parting company with Madesus and his priestly embroilments.
The Conan Compendium Page 62