Djuvula stood by the cave, staring into the darkness. That it would be guarded she was certain; that she would try to pass those guards unaided she was certain she would not. The way inside meant risk, for Sovartus would have his privacy even from those who walked the Black Path, as did he. Her strength was hardly a match for one so steeped in thaumaturgy as was Sovartus. Womanly wiles would avail her little over the hooded ones who served the master of the Black Square, since these were not born of woman and were not equipped as men who might desire women. But there was a way: The hooded ones had weak minds and could be commanded by only a medium-complex spell. This she could do, though Sovartus would hardly approve. Still, the fastest and safest way into Castle Slott would be with an escort of those who guarded it. And one of those creatures stood near a corral of horses only a short distance away.
Djuvula went to her wagon to prepare the proper spell.
Conan clung to a sheer rock face, his fingers and bare feet clutching at the narrowest of cracks like a human fly. Just above, another body length, gaped a narrow entrance to what seemed a small cave. Likely just what he searched for, he thought.
The Cimmerian had climbed to a fair height-he was at least the spans of thirty large men from the ground, and a fall from here would certainly be fatal. He was not afraid, since falling from a climb had never worried him greatly. He had first climbed only shortly after learning to walk, and grown Cimmerians seldom fell from their cold mountains.
As Conan reached for a new fingerhold, however, a sudden jolt shook the mountain, as if it were struck by a giant's fist. The Cimmerian caught only a short peripheral glimpse of blue fire splashing against the rocks a dozen arm spans above him; then he was too busy trying to maintain his precarious grip upon the mountain's face. One hand slipped, and the vibration from the rock cast his feet away. For a moment Conan hung by the tips of four fingers, and only his great strength saved him from a deadly drop. He spent no energy in cursing, but snaked his feet against the rock, scrabbling for purchase with his toes. In a moment he managed to dig his toes into a fault; his left hand found an outcrop of rock and clamped onto it. Safe again, for the moment, at least.
Conan began to climb quickly, his earlier tiredness gone. He knew not what the blue light had been, nor did he care; he wished only to be in a more secure place soon. What happened once could happen again, and the next time the blue fire might be closer or stronger.
With that thought as a spur. Conan reached the lip of the ledge bounding the cave. He pulled himself onto the wide ledge and paused to take several deep breaths. Then he untied his sandals from his belt and pulled them on.
Now, to see where this cave led. He drew his sword and stepped into the darkness.
Sovartus started as the floor beneath his feet shook suddenly. He looked at the four children, each chained under a window of the tower room. There flowed no real power from them toward him, though the new girl strived to turn him into ash with her thoughts. His skill was proof against that; besides, the force assailing his castle came from without-Vitarius! He had forgotten the mage of the White Square in his joy at collecting the child. Sovartus cast his perception forth, feeling for the old man.
Yes, it had been Vitarius who had sent a tongue of White magic at Slott. He was indeed much stronger than Sovartus had thought. The Cosmic Fire fell upon him, and still he had sufficient force to attack.
Amazing.
Briefly, Sovartus considered his response. It galled him that his castle should be attacked. On the other hand, the castle could withstand much worse without major damage; and, of course, he had more important things to do. Yes, to be certain, he had not the time to waste upon Vitarius.
Let Vitarius rail against him: it would not matter shortly. Once the Thing of Power came into being, all of the White Square combined could not stand against it. He would ignore the old mage. When he was done with his business, he would crush Vitarius with less effort than a man would expend to swat a mosquito.
Sovartus strode to his talisman table and laid his hands upon it. He uttered the first part of the phrase he had memorized a decade past.
The table began to glow redly.
When he spoke the second part of the phrase, the four children moaned softly, surrounded by that same infernal glow. Sovartus smiled, and it was all he could do to keep from laughing.
Conan felt the mountain shake again, but the force seemed weaker this time. Perhaps it was because he was inside.
After walking in darkness down a narrow tunnel, feeling his way along, he came to a lighted hallway cut from the rock. Torches guttered from their holders every dozen paces; the new passage stretched for a long distance in either direction, with no clue as to which way he should turn. He decided to take the left path, for it seemed to climb slightly, and his direction must eventually lead him upward, were he to attain his destination.
He passed several smaller corridors branching to either side. These confirmed his feeling that he traveled the correct track, for this corridor seemed a major artery, much larger than the others.
Now and again the floor would vibrate, as if shaken by a mild earth tremor, but the effect was small, and Conan had no difficulty maintaining his footing.
After a time he came to a widening of the tunnel. The corridor opened into a vast room carved from the solid rock, a room with a ceiling so distant, the flickering torches could not cast their light far enough to touch it, a room with walls so wide, the torches set upon them looked no more than slender tapers.
He decided against traversing such a vast cavern in virtual darkness.
He retreated a few paces and reached for one of the torches set upon the wall. But as the Cimmerian touched the smooth wood of the light, he saw another such flickering torch moving toward him up the corridor along his previous path. He snatched his hand away and reentered the cavern until he was hidden in deep shadow. He held his sword ready.
A black-robed figure, face hooded and hidden, moved slowly up the corridor, pausing now and then. Conan saw that the man-if a man, in fact-was replacing burned-out flambeaus with fresh brands, removing these unlighted sticks from a large pack upon his back. He-it?-would pause only long enough to flame the new torch into life, then trudged onward.
Conan's first reaction was a strong desire to behead this robed figure, for he now felt certain that whatever inhabited the black cloth was not a true man. Something in the way the figure moved cried out of foul wrongness to the sharp-eyed Cimmerian. Aye, likely the black mage's minions were evil constructs.
The young Cimmerian slid farther back into the embrace of the cavern's dark arms. He could slay the robed figure. On the other hand, he could allow it to live and follow it; certainly, it must eventually run out of torches and return to some central supply area for more, if it were not already headed for such a place. Aye, that was a better plan, to have a guide.
In the darkness the robed figure passed, moving slowly across the giant room. Silently as a shadow, Conan followed.
Led by her enthralled guide, Djuvula moved easily along the gently sloping corridor deeper into the bowels of Castle Slott. Aside from the spell that ensnared the hooded one leading her, she dared not use her magic, for fear of being detected by Sovartus. The hooded creature had been taken outside the mountain, the actual working of the diablerie done there, and done quickly, so that Sovartus might miss it. Much as she would have liked to use the sword and clothing that the creature now bore, strapped to its back, for a locating spell, she feared to do so. The barbarian walked within the bounds of Castle Slott, she knew that much. She would find him somehow.
The stink of the things dressed in black robes offended the nostrils of the panther as he slunk along the rocky ground, hidden by his coloration and the shadows. Not-men, and foul, they were, and also not very alert. A dozen of the robed things stood guard within the entrance of the cave mouth, each armed with a double-edged pike with a blade as long as a man's arm. And those pikes were no doubt drenched in some spellery or an
other that would make them effective against the panther's were. Still, they could not hurt that which they did not observe. A beast with the skills of a great cat and the cunning of a man had the advantage of these. Lemparius, once-senator, moved past the guards unseen, unheard, and unknown by them.
Past the stench of the hooded things the panther could detect the scent of his prey, the perfumed witch. And since she sought the barbarian, he, too, must be within. Soon, the panther thought, his time would be soon.
Chapter Twenty
The hooded thing moved methodically, and Conan soon realized there was little chance of the creature noticing him: It never looked back.
For his part, Conan was impressed with whoever-or whatever-had constructed the vast array of tunnels and rooms that seemed to stretch endlessly around him. It must have taken hundreds of years: either that, or some very powerful magic. Conan did not wish to think too much about the latter possibility.
Following the winding path of the torchlighter. Conan could tell they were in fact ascending. The particular tunnel in which they now walked had a definite upward slant to the stone floor. Good. He only hoped he could find Kinna and Eldia along with the half-siblings before it was too late.
A brighter light loomed ahead, and Conan dropped back somewhat from his pursuit of the hooded one. He preferred not to lose his guide, but neither was he ready to be seen, not just yet.
Another large chamber had been hewn from the granite, and this one was well-lighted with torches on the walls and fat black tapers set in man-high bronze candelabra about the chamber.
The torchlighter stood near the center of this room. With it there stood two others like it, save that instead of unlit faggots, they carried long-bladed pikes. The three appeared to be conversing, but even Conan's keen hearing could make out no voices.
Here was a problem: To follow his lead dog, he would have to pass the armed guards. At the very least, there would be some commotion in so doing, and his guide was certain to notice it.
Conan looked around the chamber, peering from behind the edge of the entrance to the room. To his left there stood a row of iron-barred doors along one wall; across from that wall a lighted tunnel exited.
Ahead, a large vitruvian-edged tapestry of darkly colored material showed some hellish scene, with demons pursuing terrified naked men and women.
He hefted his blade, taking a tighter grip upon the leathercovered handle. He was a man of action, of deeds; so far in his association with the old wizard and the sisters there had been too much magic and too little honest fighting. Demons, wizards, and hooded things were not to his liking. He liked problems that could be solved with blade and sinew, not dark sorcery.
A flash of something pale caught the Cimmerian's attention. A face? At one of the barred doors? Why, this must be some sort of dungeon, another thing he had no love for, to be sure. And while the enemy of his enemy might not be Conan's friend, such a man might prove helpful.
Kinna! Conan recognized the girl at the same time she caught sight of his own visage. He motioned for silence, but too late to still an astonished gasp from the woman.
The three hooded things turned as one to behold the captured woman.
Then, again as one, they twisted to look at the object of her surprise.
Conan thought to duck back from sight, then decided against it. Enough of this cat-footed mincing! He sprang into the chamber, his sword gripped tightly.
The three facing him spread out instantly, as though controlled by a single mind. To either side the pikemen scurried, lowering their sword-tipped weapons to point at the intruder. Directly ahead, the torchlighter pulled two of the brands from his back pack and held them over an already-blazing torch. The new faggots flamed into life. For the first time Conan saw the thing's hands and wrists clearly: The flesh glowed with color in the firelight; green it was, and scaled like the belly of a snake.
The Cimmerian shook his head. What manner of man had such creatures for servants? Sovartus was beneath contempt. The pikeman to Conan's right edged a hair closer than his partner on the opposite side.
Conan took three quick steps forward and swung his sword with a force that would have cleaved an ordinary man in half. The hooded figure met his strike with its own blade. Sparks flew from the impact of steel upon steel, and the shock of the connection traveled up Conan's hands and arms to his shoulders. His cut was blocked, and from the angle of the pike it would have taken a very strong man to do that. Whatever these things were, they were not weaklings-!
"Conan! Behind you!"
The Cimmerian recovered from his surprise just in time. He leaped to one side as a second pike whistled through the air where he had just been. He spun and brought his sword downward, as a man would swing an ax to split firewood.
His blade hit the outstretched pike, and despite the unnatural strength of the lizard-man, knocked the weapon from its owner's grasp. An angry hiss came from under the hood as the thing sprang backward to avoid Conan's follow-up slash.
The lizard-man with the flaming torches also edged back a step, out of the Cimmerian's reach.
Conan smiled. Well. They had taken his measure and decided to accord him a modicum of respect.
The first lizard-man drew back his pike, as if to stab Conan through the back. The Cimmerian caught the motion from the corner of one eye and realized his position allowed only one safe move. He bent his knees and leaped-straight up.
The pike passed just under Conan's feet, and as the beastman fell helplessly forward, the Cimmerian came down upon his attacker's shoulders. Before the lizard-thing could rise, Conan chopped at his neck with the sword. It was like striking a tree. The thing squalled, and green liquid sprayed from the wound to ooze onto the bare stone floor.
There was no time for Conan to tarry and admire his handiwork. He jumped away from the downed lizard toward the second one, who was still trying to recover its weapon. It must have realized that to continue to reach for the pike was worth death, for the thing jumped at Conan instead, catching the man's wrists in its scaled hands.
Conan felt the roughness of that powerful grip as he tried to bring the sword into play. He could not swing the weapon: his hand was trapped too tightly. The Cimmerian released the sword, and it fell, slicing a line across the bare green arm that now protruded from the black robe.
The lizard-thing hissed, exhaling a charnel stench into Conan's face.
Sensing movement behind him, he twisted, flexing his brawny legs and back, turning the lizard-man around. Just in time, for the torchlighter smashed both his lit brands onto its comrade's back instead of Conan's.
The Cimmerian brought his knee up then, and slammed it into the thing's groin. Only smoothness met the hard muscle of his leg when it connected with the juncture of the lizard-thing's crotch. He'd not stop it that way.
Conan danced with the lizard, trying to avoid the swinging torches being flailed at him by the other creature. This could not go on much longer, he knew. This abomination was at least as strong as he was, and it had help.
Enough! The Cimmerian's rage boiled up, and he screamed his anger into the face of the lizard. Reaching deep inside for new strength, he hurled the thing away from him into one of the massive bronze candelabra. The post cracked, and the metal taper holder toppled, landing on the lizard-thing; its robe took fire quickly, and in an instant the monster became a living torch. It leaped up and ran, smashed into the wall opposite the cells, and fell, a fiery corpse.
The torchlighter dropped its weapons then, and turned to flee. It ran for the exit Conan had noticed earlier. Without thinking, the Cimmerian leaped for one of the fallen pikes. He snatched the weapon up and hurled it, all of a single move. The sword tip struck the running lizard high between the shoulder blades. For a moment the thing stood transfixed, then fell forward. The pike was embedded so deeply, it remained standing upright from the impaled form like a leafless tree.
Conan retrieved his sword and went to the door of Kinna's cell. A simple bolt
fastened the enclosure's entrance shut, high enough to be out of reach of an inmate. Conan threw the bolt back, and Kinna rushed out and into his arms.
"Oh, Conan, I thought never to see you again!"
He patted the girl with his free hand.
"He has Eldia and the others, Conan, in some kind of tower, I think.
What of Vitarius?"
Conan said, "He remains on the plain. I felt some of his handiwork earlier, when the mountain shook."
"We must get to Sovartus before he unleashes his awful creation," Kinna said. "But I am not sure I can recall the way."
Conan pointed with his blade. "That way. The lizard-thing ran there before I stopped him. If he thought help lay in that direction, there we must go. Unless you would rather remain here while I continue?"
In answer, Kinna untangled herself from Conan's embrace and fetched the remaining pike. Her eyes flashed. "I shall accompany you. I'll accompany you, or I'll go alone!"
Conan uttered a short laugh. "I cannot fault your spirit, Kinna. Very well. Let us go and find this wizard and send him to join his ancestors!"
Djuvula's escort had moved silently and steadily, never hesitating, until they came to the lockroom chamber. There, the enthralled being stopped suddenly. The witch, startled, peered around the form of her reptilian guide to see what had given it pause.
Three of the hooded lizards lay dead in the chamber, one barely recognizable from being burned-it still smoldered against one wall.
Djuvula nodded to herself. This must be the work of the barbarian. From the looks of the congealing green blood on the floor, he could not be far ahead either.
Smiling, Djuvula prodded her escort with one sharp-nailed finger. The creature moved on, and the witch followed.
The panther would have stopped to eat had the flesh of the fresh-killed not-men been edible. The finely honed senses of the cat allowed it to know better, however. That meat was poison to any natural creature, and even to one wrapped in were it would not serve as sustenance. But no matter; the scent of the witch permeated the air; she was only a few paces ahead, down that corridor.
The Conan Compendium Page 186