Conan the Victorious

by Robert Jordan

  “I know of Valash,” Hordo said, spitting after the name. “ ’Tis Hanuman’s own luck he did not slit your throat and sell your goods—and your nieces—in Khawarism.”

  “He attempted no such,” the Khitan said. “I was not aware that you were men of the sea.”

  “We have all been many things in our time,” Conan replied. “At the moment we are men with swords who might be hired as guards if enough coin is offered.”

  Kang Hou tilted his head as though considering. “I think,” he said at last, “that two silver coins for each man would be equitable. And a gold coin each if I and my goods reach Ayodhya in safety.”

  Conan exchanged a look with Hordo, then said, “Done.”

  “Very good. Until you are ready to ride to the caravan, I will wait with the guards Captain Torio was good enough to lend me. Come, nieces.”

  As soon as the Khitans were gone, Baltis let out a low laugh. “A gold and two silvers to make a journey we were making for free. The Khitan must have a king’s wealth to pay so. There’s luck in you, Cimmerian. Take that sour look off your face, Prytanis.”

  “That,” Hasan announced, “was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

  “Kuie Hsi?” Shamil said jealously.

  “The other. Chin Kou.”

  “That is all we need,” Hordo grumbled as he began rolling his blankets, “for those two to lose their heads over this Khitan’s nieces. You realize he was lying, do you not? Unless there are two men called Valash captaining ships on the Vilayet, he never got those wenches off that vessel as easily as he makes out.”

  “I know,” Conan said. “I did not hear you refusing him because of it though.” The one-eyed man muttered something. “What, Hordo?”

  “I said, at least this time you’ve not gotten us involved with a wizard. You have a bad habit of making wizards annoyed with you.”

  Shouldering his saddle, Conan laughed. “This time I will not come within a league of a wizard.”

  CHAPTER X

  The music of cithern, flute and tambour sounded softly in the alabaster-columned chamber, the musicians hidden behind a lacy screen carved of ivory. Golden lamps, hanging on silver chains from the vaulted ceiling, cast a sheen on the olive skins of six veiled, supple women, clothed in naught else but tinkling golden bells at their ankles, who danced with finger-cymbals. The smell of incense and attar of roses suffused the air. Other women, as lovely as the dancers and garbed as they, scurried with dainty steps to proffer silver trays of sweetmeats, figs and candied delicacies to Naipal, reclining at his ease on cushions of brocaded silk. Two of their sisters worked long fans of pale ostrich plumes to cool him. The mage merely picked at the offerings and toyed with his goblet of Shirakman wine. He gave as little heed to the women, for his mind was distant from his surroundings.

  Near Naipal’s head knelt a soft, round-faced man whose tunic of scarlet silk and turban of gold and blue seemed gaudy beside the wizard’s soft grays. He, too, gave no eye to the women as he reported in a soft voice on how the day had seen his master’s wishes carried out. “And one thousand pice were handed out in your name, lord, to the beggars of Ayodhya. An additional one thousand pice were…”

  Naipal stared into his wine, as heedless of its exquisite bouquet as of the eunuch’s voice. Five times as the tortuous days passed he had gone to the hidden chamber; twice he actually put his hand on the ornate ivory case. But each time he convinced himself to wait, each time with a new reason. The canker in his bosom was that he well knew the true cause of his hesitancy. To open the case, to gaze on the mirror within, perhaps to see that danger to all his plans was yet reflected there, this was more than he could bear. The fear he had fought off in that night of frenzy was returned a hundredfold to paralyze him. Something whispered in the back of his mind, wait. Wait a little longer, and surely the mirror would again be empty, the danger dealt with by his far-flung minions. He knew the whisper was false, yet even as he castigated himself for listening, he waited.

  To take his mind from doubts and self-flagellation, he tried to listen to the eunuch. The fat man now murmured of the day’s happenings in Ayodhya, such as he thought might interest his master.

  “…And finding his favorite wife in the embrace of her two lovers, each a groom from his own stables, Jharim Kar slew the men and flogged his wife. He slew as well three servants who were witness, but the tale is already laughed at in the bazaars, lord. In the forenoon Shahal Amir was slain on the outskirts of the city, by bandits it is said, but two of his wives…”

  Sighing, Naipal let the man’s continued burblings pass his ears unheard. Another time the matter of Jharim Kar would have been pleasing, though not of prime importance. A score of deft manipulations to lead a woman to folly and a husband to discovery of that folly, with the result that a man who once gathered other lords around him was now laughed at. A man could not be at once a leader and the butt of bawdy laughter. It was not that Naipal bore Jharim Kar any animus. The nobleman had simply attracted too many others to his side, creating what could have grown into a island of stability in a sea of shifting loyalties and intrigues. The wizard could not allow that. Greater intrigues and increasing turmoil were necessary to his plans. Bhandarkar guarded himself well against his wizard; kings who trusted too much did not long rule, and this king’s toenail parings or hair clippings were burned as soon as cut. But Bhandarkar would die, if not from so esoteric a means as he feared, and without his strong hand, turmoil would become chaos, a chaos on which Naipal would impose a new order. Not in his own name, of course. But he would pull the strings, and the king he put on the throne would not even know he danced at another’s will.

  Lost in dreams of the future, Naipal was startled by the sudden throbbing warmth on his chest. Not quite believing, he clutched at the black opal beneath his robes. Through layers of silk the stone pulsed against his palm. Masrok signaled!

  “Be silent!” he roared, throwing the goblet at the eunuch’s head for emphasis. The round-faced man snapped his mouth shut as though fearing for his tongue. “Go to Ashok,” Naipal ordered. “Tell him that all I have commanded is to be readied at once. At once!”

  “I run to obey, lord.” The eunuch began shuffling backward on his knees, bumping his forehead to the floor.

  “Then run, Katar take you!” Naipal shouted. “Or you will find there is more than can be taken from a man than you have lost!” Babbling terrified compliance, the eunuch scrambled to his feet, still genuflecting, and fled. Naipal’s glare swept from the sleek nudity of the dancers to the ivory screen hiding the musicians. At his command for silence, all had frozen, hardly daring to breathe. “Play!” he barked. “Dance! You will all be beaten for laziness!”

  The music burst forth desperately, and the dancers writhed in a frenzy to please, but Naipal dismissed them from his awareness and waved away the serving girls. His heart seemed to beat in time with the throbbing of the opal against his hand. The stone was all his mind had room for, the sign from Masrok that the demon should be summoned, and what that must mean. Ashok, chief among the tongueless ones, would quickly prepare the chamber below. In such terror was the wizard held by those who served the gray chambers that he knew they would literally run themselves to death to obey his slightest wish, let alone a command. It could not be done quickly enough to suit him, however. Impatience bubbled in him like the surface of a geyser before eruption.

  Able to wait no longer, Naipal flung himself to his feet and stalked from the chamber. Behind him dancers and musicians continued their vain strivings, fearful now to cease without his express command.

  To his bedchamber Naipal went first, to fetch the golden coffer containing the demon-wrought dagger. That must be in Masrok’s view, not mentioned this time, but no less a reminder that even a demon could be slain.

  When he reached the gray-domed chamber beneath the palace, the wizard nodded in satisfaction without even realizing that he had done so. A large, tightly woven basket, its lid lashed firmly in place, stood n
ear his worktable. A bronze gong with a padded mallet hanging from its teakwood frame had been placed near the iron latticework set in one wall.

  Naipal paused by the bars. From the door that was part of the iron mesh a ramp led down into a round pit lit by rush torches set high on the walls. On the sand-covered floor of the pit a score of swords in various patterns made an untidy heap. Directly opposite the ramp a massive iron-bound door let into the pit.

  For a single test he had used the fires of the khorassani to carve out the pit and the cells and connecting corridors beyond. A single test but most necessary, for he had to test the truth of the ancient writings. He did not believe they lied, but none knew better than he that there were degrees of truth, and he must know the exact degree of this truth. But other things must be done first. Beneath his robes the black opal still pulsed against his chest.

  Denying his own need for haste, Naipal took greater care than ever before in setting the nine khorassani on their golden tripods. Anticipation burned in him like fanned coals as the tenth stone, blacker than midnight, was placed. He settled on the cushions before it, and once more the ancient incantation rolled against the canescent walls.

  “E’las eloyhim! Maraath savinday! Khora mar! Khora mar!”

  Once more bars of fire leaped up. The stones blazed like imprisoned suns, and a pathway was opened to realms unknowable to mortal man.

  “Masrok,” Naipal called, “I summon you!”

  The winds of infinity blew. Thunder roared and the huge obsidian demon floated within the fiery cage. And with it floated another figure, that of a man in armor of studded leather and a spiked helm of a kind unseen in Vendhya for more than a thousand years. Two swords of unbelievable antiquity—one long and straight, one shorter and curved—hung at the armored figure’s sides. Almost did Naipal laugh with joy. Success! He did not realize he had spoken aloud until the demon replied in tones like a storm.

  “Success you call it, O man? I call it betrayal! Betrayal heaped upon betrayal!”

  “Surely a small betrayal only,” Naipal said. “And freedom is your eventual reward.” A shudder passed through the demon, and its eight arms shook until the wizard feared it might attempt to hurl one of its weapons at him, or even try to fling itself through the flaming barrier. He laid a nervous hand on the golden coffer.

  “You speak of what you do not know, O man! A small betrayal? To do your bidding I was forced to slay one of my other selves! For the first time since time itself began, one of the Sivani is slain, and by my hand!”

  “And you fear the vengeance of the other two? But surely they do not know, or you would not be here.”

  “And how long before they discover the deed, O man?”

  “Fear not,” the mage said. “I will find a way to protect you.” Before the demon could speak again, Naipal shouted. “Go, Masrok! I command it!”

  With a deafening roar the demon was gone, and only the ancient warrior floated within the bars of the fire.

  Now Naipal did permit himself to laugh. Demons, it seemed, could indeed be enmeshed as easily as men.

  Swiftly he set about lowering the sorcerous barrier, a task more difficult in some ways than erecting it had been. At last it was done, and he hurried to examine the figure that now stood precisely centered on the arcane pattern in the floor. No breath stirred the ancient warrior’s chest, and no light shone in his dark, staring eyes, yet his dusky skin seemed to glow with life. Curious, Naipal touched the warrior’s cheek and grunted. Despite what seemed living suppleness to the eye, it was like touching leather stretched tight over wood.

  “Now,” Naipal murmured to himself.

  From the myriad of crystal beakers and vials on his worktable, he chose out five, pouring small, precisely measured portions of their contents into a mortar wrought from the skull of a virgin murdered by her mother. Four of those ingredients were so rare that he begrudged even the tiny amounts needed. With the thigh bone of the virgin’s mother for a pestle, he ground and mixed until he had a black paste.

  The mage hesitated before turning to the large wicker basket. Then, steeling himself, he tore open the lashings that held its lid. Pity rose in him as he looked down on the ragged boy within, bound and gagged, frozen with fear. Forcefully he stifled emotion and lifted the child from the basket. The small form trembled as he laid it before the shape of the warrior. He could feel the child’s eyes on him, though he tried to ignore them.

  Hastily now, as if to be done with the thing, Naipal fetched the foul-made mortar. Dipping the little finger of his left hand into the black paste, he drew a symbol on the forehead of the bound child, then again on that of the warrior. The residue he scrubbed carefully from his finger with a cloth.

  The warrior, the child and the largest of the khorassani lay in a straight line. Naipal lowered himself to the cushions to invoke powers not summoned before.

  “Mon’draal un’tar, maran vi’endar!”

  The words were softly spoken, yet the walls of the chamber chimed in resonance with them. Thrice Naipal repeated the chant and at the third speaking, rays of light, cold and pale as mountain snow, lanced from the ebon stone, one to strike the dark symbol on the warrior’s forehead, the other that on the child’s. On and on Naipal spoke the incantation. A third icy beam sprang into being, linking the two symbols directly. The child arched his back and screamed, unable to move his head from beneath the glittering point of that sorcerous triangle. Naipal cried the words loudly to drown out the scream. A whine shimmered from the light like the string of a zither drawn too tight.

  Abruptly all was silence; the rays of light vanished. Naipal expelled a long breath. It was done. Getting to his feet, he approached the lifeless body of the child. He had eyes only for that small form.

  “You have been freed from a life of misery, pain and hunger,” he said. “Your spirit has gone to dwell in a purer realm. Only life was taken from you. It had to be a young life, not yet fully formed.” He paused, then added, “I would use the children of nobles and of the wealthy if I could.” Funeral fires fit for a lord, he decided. Such would he give this nameless waif.

  Slowly his gaze rose to the leather-armored figure. Still no breath stirred in that body. Was there light in the eyes? “Can you hear me?” he demanded. There was no reply. “Step forward!” Obediently the warrior took one pace forward and stood again as a statue. “Of course,” Naipal mused. “You are without volition of your own. You obey me, who gave you life again, and only me, unless I command you to heed another. Good. It is as the writings said. So far. Follow me!”

  Maintaining the exact distance between them, the warrior obeyed. Naipal unlocked the door in the iron latticework and motioned. The other stepped through, and the wizard closed and relocked the barred door. It was good, Naipal thought, that spoken commands were not necessary. The writings had been unclear.

  A hollow tone boomed as Naipal struck the gong with the padded mallet. In the pit the iron-bound door swung open. Moving cautiously, twenty men appeared, eyes going immediately to Naipal and the motionless figure at the head of the ramp. Behind them the door closed silently. When they saw the swords piled on the sand, there was but a moment’s hesitation before they rushed for the weapons. The men were as varied as the blades they seized, wearing garb ranging from filthy rags to some noble’s cast-off silken finery. They had not been randomly chosen. The test would not be complete then. In that pit were brigands, bandits, deserters from the army, each one familiar with a sword. Freedom and gold had been promised to those who survived. Naipal thought he might even honor the promise.

  “Kill them,” he commanded.

  Even as the words left his mouth, six of the ruffians charged howling up the ramp, blades swinging. His face an expressionless mask, the leather-clad warrior drew his archaic swords and moved smoothly to meet them. The six attacked with a frenzy driven by the promise of freedom; the warrior fought with lightning precision. When the form in ancient armor moved on, a single head rolling down the ramp before it, si
x corpses littered the way behind.

  In the pit two of the deserters hastily chivvied those remaining into two lines as though they were infantry on a battlefield. The warrior neither slowed his approach nor altered his stride. The two ranks of desperate men tensed to meet him. But a pace short of them, the warrior suddenly leaped to his right, attacking. The rogues Naipal had gathered may have thought their formation made them infantry, but they had no shields to protect them. Two fell, bloodied and twitching, before the ranks could wheel under the deserters’ shouted instructions. The resurrected warrior did not wait for them, however. As the lines pivoted, he leaped back the other way and dashed into their midst from the flank. The deserters’ small order dissolved in a melee of hacking steel, welling blood and screaming men, each fighting frantically for himself alone, each dying as the ancient warrior’s flashing blade reached him.

  When the leather-armored figure slit the throat of the last kicking wretch, Naipal breathed deep in wondering satisfaction. Twenty corpses littered the crimson-splashed sand, and the reborn warrior stood unharmed. In truth there were rents in the studded leather of his armor, and his teeth could be seen through a gash that laid open his cheek, but not a drop of blood fell from him. He moved among the bodies, making sure that each was actually dead, as though no blade had ever touched him.

  Turning his back on the scene below, the wizard sagged against the bars, laughing until he wheezed for breath. Everything the ancient writings had claimed was true. The wounds would heal quickly. Nothing could slay the warrior he had resurrected.

  More than two thousand years earlier, a conqueror called Orissa had carved a score of small nations and city-states into the kingdom of Vendhya, with himself as its first king. And when King Orissa died, an army of twenty thousand warriors was entombed with him, a royal bodyguard for the afterlife, preserved so perfectly by intricate thaumaturgies that though they no longer lived, neither were they dead as ordinary men died. With the proper rituals, life could be restored after a fashion, and an army that could not die would march again. All that was necessary was to find the centuries-lost tomb.