"Do you think I'm that easy to rob, dog?" growled the Cimmerian. His voice was deep, and his accent grated upon the ear.
"Have I any use for your filthy loincloth or your foul sandals, fool?"
Moulay managed to choke out.
The grip on his throat eased somewhat. "Then why do you disturb my sleep, dog?"
"I am here," Moulay said, "to bring you to my mistress. She has a commission to be performed for which she will pay you well."
The Cimmerian released Moulay and rose. He was taller than the desert man had expected. "What commission? I'll fight for pay, but I am neither assassin nor bravo. Nor a fool to be gulled."
Outraged at this cavalier handling, Moulay straightened his robes. "She will tell you what she wants. Come with me."
The Cimmerian stretched. "I haven't eaten in two days and I'm famished. Your mistress will get little from me if I drop from hunger before I see her."
Fuming, Moulay said, "I'll buy your dinner, barbarian. Come downstairs and feed until you can hold no more."
Conan grinned. "That takes more than you would think."
Moulay scratched at the door to his lady's chamber. True to his promise, Conan had eaten enough for three men and had lost much of his surliness, even though Moulay had refused him any wine prior to his interview.
As the two had entered the most expensive inn in Khorshemish, the innkeeper had regarded the towering, nearly-naked barbarian with a dismay that bordered on horror. Conan cared little about the thoughts of a mere townsman, but he knew that his appearance might not favorably impress a prospective patron.
At Moulay's signal a woman's voice called, "Enter."
The two men went inside. "My lady, this is the Cimmerian you wished to see. His name is Conan."
Moulay stepped aside and Conan stared at the woman. She was beautiful, with square-cut black hair, a dark complexion, and fine, aristocratic features. Her eyes were large and black, rimmed with heavy kohl. The kohl, her serpent-decorated jewelry, and her severe black robes proclaimed her a Stygian. He had no love for Stygia, nor for its ancient evils and sorceries.
"I am Hathor-Ka," she said. "Come closer."
Reluctantly, Conan obeyed. Starting at his toes, the woman studied every inch of his body, pausing to take note of the powerful thighs, the lean waist and broad chest, his heavy arms and thick, swordsman's wrists.
"Turn around," she ordered. Not sure why he did so, Conan obeyed and she gave his back the same careful scrutiny. "You seem fit," she pronounced at length.
Conan turned to face her. She had the impassive Stygian countenance that made age difficult to judge. She might have been in late youth or early middle age; and although her beauty was great, it left him unstirred.
"You are a Cimmerian," she said. "I have need of a Cimmerian."
"Why a Cimmerian?" he asked. "I've been hired for my good sword arm
before, and even for my skill as a thief, but never for the land of my birth."
She leaned back slightly and gazed up at him with unfathomable eyes.
"I wish you to undertake a mission for me to your homeland. You must deliver something for me, to a certain mountain cave in Cimmeria. In return"―she reached beneath her robe and drew forth a leathern bag which she dropped to the table with a loud klink―"this shall be yours.
Open it."
Conan picked up the bag and loosened its drawstrings. Fine gold Aquilonian coins sparkled in the candlelight. His heart exulted but he let nothing show in his face or voice. "What are the terms? Half now and half when I've made your delivery?"
"No. If you agree to undertake this mission, it is yours now."
"You are trusting," the Cimmerian said. "How do you know I won't toss your parcel into the nearest bush when I ride from here?"
"I am many things, Cimmerian," Hathor-Ka said, "but trusting I am not. You Cimmerians are said to be people who do not give their word lightly. Swear that you will do my bidding in this without fail."
"So be it." Conan tossed up the bag and caught it as it fell. "I swear I will take whatever it is to Cimmeria, and deliver it to this mountain cave you speak of."
"That is not enough!" she said.
"Why not?" he said, nettled. "I do not break my word."
"You must swear by Crom!" she demanded.
Rashly, wanting the gold and not pausing for thought, Conan said, "Very well, then. I swear by Crom to do your bidding." As soon as the words were off his tongue he would have given the whole bag of gold to have them back. What knew this woman of Crom, and what was her purpose?
Hathor-Ka leaned back again with a cruel smile upon her lips. "That word you must not break, Cimmerian. In Stygia we have knowledge of all the gods, and your pitiless Crom will not suffer his name to be used
lightly."
"You have the truth of it," Conan admitted.
The woman nodded to Moulay, and he went to a rich chest that stood in a corner. Taking a heavy key from within his sash, the desert man unlocked the chest. He threw back the lid, and from its depths withdrew a small flask of silver, sealed with lead. The seal was stamped with an oddly disturbing hieroglyph. Hathor-Ka accepted the flask from the hand of her servant and held it out to Conan. Reluctantly, he took it and felt its surprising lightness.
"It feels empty," Conan said.
"It is not," Hathor-Ka assured him. "Your duty is simple. When you enter the cave, you must build a fire. Then you must unseal the flask and pour its contents on the flames, calling my name three times in a loud voice. Is that clear?"
The hairs on the back of Conan's neck prickled. This was sorcery, and he wanted nothing to do with it, but he had given his word. Crom curse me for a fool! he thought. "And then?" he asked.
"Then your duty is discharged and you may do as you like," she said.
"Well," he growled, "it seems simple enough. Which mountain is this cave in? Cimmeria is full of mountains, and most of them have caves."
"This cave you should have no trouble finding," she assured him. "You are familiar with a mountain called Ben Morgh?"
Now Conan's heart sank into his worn-out sandals. "Ben Morgh?" he said in an awed whisper.
"Exactly. The flask must be emptied on a fire as the sun rises upon the morn of the autumnal equinox in the great cave in the east face of the mountain called Ben Morgh." She smiled at the dismay writ large on the face of the Cimmerian. "What ails you, Conan? You seem to fancy yourself a hero. Have you no stomach for a hard journey and a climb up a mountain?"
"You Stygian bitch!" Conan said, ignoring Moulay's hasty grab at his
dagger, "Ben Morgh is the home of Crom! That cave is the home of my people's god!"
The man who dangled outside, just above the window, heard those words with much interest. He was supported only by a thin rope, one end of which was looped about the battlement surrounding the inn's flat roof, the other end terminating in a broad leather strap buckled about the man's ankle. When speech within the room concluded, he hoisted himself back to the roof, set about detaching his tackle, and looped it about his waist.
He was a small man, quick and deft in his movements. He sat atop a merlon as he performed his task and watched the street below. It was full dark now, but his eyes were as sensitive as a cat's; he recognized the Cimmerian, who emerged from the building and turned to walk dejectedly toward the poorer quarter of the city.
The little man crossed over several tight-packed rooftops until he reached a house near the goldsmith's quarter. Here he descended through a trap leading from the roof garden into the house proper. In a large room he found a corpulent man sitting cross-legged on a cushion, his hands folded limply in his lap, his eyes closed.
"Jaganath?" the small man said hesitantly. "I have returned." His speech was that of the highest caste of Vendhya.
The seated man's eyes opened, and he smiled benignly. "And did you learn anything of note, Gopal?" Quickly, the younger man described what he had heard outside the room of Hathor-Ka. The fat man's smile increased
. "The Double-goer's Spell of Tuya! The Stygian woman is indeed clever. She has saved herself an arduous journey."
"Why did you not utilize that spell yourself, uncle?" the younger man asked.
Jaganath turned his gaze upon his inquisitive young kinsman with little favor. "Because, Gopal, it requires an extraordinarily trustworthy person to make the delivery certain, and I trust nobody but myself." He smiled benignly again. "Not even you."
He contemplated the parchment laid out before him. "Now, at least, there can be no doubt. Hathor-Ka has stumbled across the same lost text
from the Book of Skelos as I did so many years ago. I wonder how many others are making the same journey at this very moment?"
"Uncle," said Gopal, "do you not think that it is now time for you to tell me the meaning of this journey we have undertaken? It has been so many long, weary leagues from Vendhya to this barbarous place. Surely, it is not only for the sake of knowledge that we have endured such hardships."
"Not knowledge," Jaganath said, "but power."
"Power?" said Gopal, his eyes alight.
"Exactly. When I was a very young man, little older than you are now, I studied in many strange lands. One day, in the library of a wise man of purple-towered Aghrapur, I found a book, a frivolous book of poetry. I was about to put it away when I noticed that the parchment lining the inside of the cover was peeling loose, and there was strange lettering on the inner surface. I cut it free carefully and returned the book to its place. This parchment before me is the very one I found that day. Can you read it?"
Gopal craned his neck to look, but the script was utterly alien to him.
Even though the letters meant nothing they seemed to draw and twist his thoughts down paths unwelcome even to a Vendhyan apprentice wizard.
"No, uncle, I cannot," he admitted.
"And neither could I in those days; yet, even as you feel it now, I felt this was a thing of unsurpassing importance. Years later, after much study under great masters, I gained knowledge of this language and remembered the parchment I had acquired. I found that this was a fragment from a lost chapter of Skelos, written in the original tongue. It is in the form of obscure quatrains, but the burden of the message from the ninth line to the twentieth is this: A new star shall appear between the horns of the Bull. Upon the morn of that year when day and night are of equal length, after the blaze of summer, before the chill of winter, a new Master shall arise to command all the wizards of the Earth. That one shall reign without peer or rival. On the morn of that year when day and night are of equal length, as the sun rises and casts its rays into the cave of the mountain of Ben Morgh, in the land of Cimmeria, the wizard who is to be master of all others will chant the Great Summoning of the Powers. That one shall gain the ultimate power of sorcery, and shall not die until struck down by an Arrow of Indra. So prophesieth Skelos."
Gopal sat silent for a moment, jaw slack with awe. "What does it mean 'an Arrow of Indra'?" he asked.
"The Arrows of Indra are falling stars, which are seen to drop from the constellation called Indra's Chariot only once in every thousand years.
There is a rumor that the palace of the King of Valusia was destroyed by such eight thousand years past. The Arrows of Indra were last seen to fall a mere hundred years ago. Thus he who reaches that cave on the appointed morn, and chants the Great Summoning, will rule as supreme wizard of the Earth for at least nine hundred years!" The assumed mantle of serenity fell from the Vendhyan, leaving the naked mask of power-lust.
"The text says 'master,' " Gopal said. "How can the Stygian woman hope to gain this power?"
"The ancient tongue makes no distinction between male and female,"
Jaganath answered. "And Hathor-Ka is among the elite of adepts who can chant the Great Summoning. No more than ten of us have mastery of that spell. Of those, how many have found this prophecy? Two I am certain of.
If there are more than two others I shall be very much surprised."
"And what of this Cimmerian?" Gopal asked.
"The road to his homeland is a long one, fraught with perils. Something may happen to him. In fact, I am sure that some ill thing will befall him."
The younger man nodded understanding. "But, just suppose he should survive this something. What then?"
"He will travel overland," Jaganath explained patiently. "He must go through Ophir, then through Nemedia or Aquilonia and across Gunderland or the Border Kingdom before he can reach Cimmeria. Even then it will be a long journey from the border to Ben Morgh."
"But, uncle," Gopal persisted, "what is to keep the barbarian from going to the coast and taking ship?"
Jaganath smiled with pleasure. "That is most perceptive, nephew. In fact, that is exactly what I intend to do. We shall travel east until we reach the Tybor River in Argos, take a barge to the port of Messantia, and thence ship north. Thus shall we travel in relative comfort to Vanaheim, where we will find men to escort us to Ben Morgh. The Cimmerian cannot
take this easy route, for to reach Cimmeria from the sea he must cross the Pictish Wilderness or Vanaheim, and both Pict and Van are deadly enemies of the Cimmerians."
"Then," Gopal said, "if we win the race, as seems certain, you shall be the greatest sorcerer who has ever lived." He was awed and eager at the same time.
"I shall be as powerful as a god," Jaganath said, "and you shall be second only to me."
Conan sat brooding over his wine in a tavern, a much finer establishment than the one at which he had lodged. From a tall Aquilonian mercenary he had purchased a patched but clean tunic which would serve to keep him acceptable in better surroundings until the markets opened on the morrow. Glumly, he ignored the strains of wild music and the posturing of the dancers. He was not yet hungry, and he could not savor his wine. For lack of a purse or other personal furniture, the bag of gold hung from his neck on a thong, hidden in his tunic. He had paid the tavern keeper for three days lodging with one of the gold coins: a heap of copper and silver now lay on the table before him, brought by his host in change..
"Tell your fortune, master?" Conan looked up to see an ancient, ragged Khitan standing by the table.
Even in such a cosmopolitan caravan center as Khorshemish, men of the distant east were a rare sight. The man's shredded tunic did not even cover his skinny shanks, and he wore a bizarre headdress of feathers and bells. Strings of bones and shells and coral and other nameless things hung around his neck. He grinned ingratiatingly at the barbarian, nodding with senile glee that made his thin goat-beard flutter. "Tell you good fortune, very cheap."
"Is this what attracted you?" Conan said, gesturing toward a little pile of coins before him. He picked up the smallest―a thick, ill-stamped copper shekh from Shem―and tossed it to the ancient. "Here. Now, be gone with you." He turned his attention to his neglected wine.
The mountebank caught the coin and studied it. "You get no good fortune for this," he said. "For this, all you get is a quotation. Duke Li said: 'Each piece on the player's board thinks that it moves by its own sovereign
will from one square to another.'"
"Eh?" Conan said, mystified. "What kind of fortuneteller are you?"
"Good one," the old man said. "Give me one piece silver, I tell you good fortune."
Reluctantly, Conan grinned. The crazy little old man was amusing, and right now he needed distraction. He hated sorcery, but he had no fear of the petty magics of mountebanks. "Sit down," Conan said, gesturing hospitably. "Have some wine."
The ancient cackled gleefully and plunked his skinny backside onto a stool opposite Conan. He snatched a cup from another table, and dumping the lees on the straw-covered floor, filled it from the pitcher that sat before the hulking Cimmerian. "You Northman, not so?" he asked.
"From Cimmeria, yes. Now you're drinking my wine, so I want a favorable fortune."
The old one dipped his fingers into the wine and spattered drops in the cardinal directions, drawing curses from tavern patrons who were struck by droplets. He
drank all but a few drops from his cup and studied the lees swirling in the bottom while he muttered incomprehensibly. Grinning, he looked up. "Very good fortune! What you do, the gods direct. You think you decide your own actions, but in reality you do only the bidding of higher powers, like Duke Li's gaming pieces." Once again the old man switched from foolish chatter to sensible speech.
"You call that a fortune?" Conan said. "I always hear that kind of nonsense from easterners. The gods don't direct me; I am my own master."
"Yes, yes," said the Khitan, nodding and grinning furiously, "but sometimes you do something a little strange, not so? Something you do not understand?"
About to retort sharply, Conan remembered his ill-considered oath to Hathor-Ka earlier that evening. "Yes," he admitted at last, "sometimes I do."
"See?" said the Khitan, as if that explained everything. "Soon you go on
long trip, not so?"
"That takes a little gift of prophecy," Conan grumbled. "Of course I'm going on a journey. Nobody stays in Khorshemish if he can help it."
"Well, you do things now, you do things soon, they are important. They seem like little things, unimportant things, but they are part of the gods'
plans. Nothing you can do about it, all for good anyway." The old man poured himself another cup.
"Crom take you," Conan said, now bored with the mad old fool and disgusted as always with eastern fatalism.
"Soon enough," said the old man, laughing and nodding.
Two
The North Gate
In the great market of Khorshemish, as in markets everywhere, the people gathered in the morning to buy and sell, to trade the latest gossip, and to talk politics. Women waited in long lines at the central fountain with empty water jars to fill, taking the opportunity to socialize with their neighbors. In a corner of the market, the local astrologers were met to discuss the same phenomenon about which they had been heatedly arguing for months: the new star that had appeared between the horns of the Bull. No agreement was reached except that it was either significant or otherwise, and, if significant, it meant something either good or bad.
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