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Conan the Fearless
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By Steve Perry


Prologue

The chamber exuded cold, but a kind of coldness deeper than that
offered by the damp and mold-speckled gray stone walls. It was an
unnatural chill, a thing of the soul as well as of the air, a frigidity
of ancient bones interred in the heart of a glacier old when Atlantis
still rode the oceans. In the center of this coldness stood wrapped its
cause and its focus-Sovartus, Mage of the Black Square, delving into an
arcane spell forged with warped and stained essences of evil.

The magician's body swayed with the forces flowing through him, and his
voice was deep and powerful when he spoke. "Come forth, child of the
gray lands. Come forth, spawn of the pits. Come forth by my command!"
Sovartus then intoned the Seven Words from the Parchment of Slicreves,
being careful to pronounce them precisely. To do less was to court
instant death-a word misspoken would allow the demon he conjured to
tear free of the diagram sketched exactingly upon the flagstones.

From deep within the body of the castle a terrible shriek issued forth,
made as if by some unearthly beast being dipped slowly into boiling
lead.

In the center of the drawn pentagram smoke boiled forth from a tiny
vibrating point, expanding outward in malignant waves of dark purple
mixed with hard yellow, as a fresh bruise upon the air of the chamber.
There came an eye-smiting flash of infernal light, and the smell of
burnt sulphur claimed the room. A demon suddenly stood within the
confines of the pentagram, dripping black slime and exuding the stink
of Gehanna from every pore. He was half again as tall as a man, with
skin the color of fresh blood; he stood naked and hairless, and only a
blind man could have failed to see how awesomely male he was.

"Who dares?" the demon screamed. He lunged toward Sovartus, seeking to
wrap his taloned hands around the throat of the man with jet hair and
pointed beard who grinned at him; but the demon slammed into the wall
of force that bounded the pentagram. Giant muscles bunched in the
monster's arms as he pounded his fists against the invisible barrier.
He screamed, a sound that carried the rage of Hell, and he bared long
ivory fangs at the man. "You will beg a thousand days for death!" His
voice screeched like sheets of thick brass being sundered.

Sovartus shook his head. "Nay, hellspawn. I have summoned you and you
shall serve at my command." The mage grinned, then laughed. "You shall
serve indeed, Djavul."

The demon recoiled, holding his clawed hands in front of him. His face
held horror. "You know my name!"

"Aye. And thus you will do my bidding or remain bound in my pantagram
until time's end."

Black slime oozed from Djavul's body and dripped onto the floor. Where
it touched, tendrils of smoke spiraled up from the flagstones. Pools of
sludge formed, but stopped at the outline of the magic diagram Sovartus
had drawn. Djavul stared at the man. "You are a Wizard of the Black
Ring?" the demon asked.

"Not the Ring, night-child. I am Sovartus of the Black Square, adept,
and soon to be master of the Four Ways. I do not delude myself with the
scarlet dreams of the black lotus, nor dabble in base necromancy such
as those inept Stygian pretenders. It is not the Ring but the more
powerful Square that binds and now commands you, Djavul. Know you of
the Square in the pit?"

Djavul gnashed his fangs. "We know of it."

"Ah. And shall you serve as I bid?"

"I shall serve," he said. He flashed his teeth yet again at Sovartus.
"Yet take you care, man, for if you should make the smallest mistake-!"

"Threaten not, demon. I can bind you to a rock and have you carted to
the Vilayet Sea to be tossed in to contemplate the bottom muck, should
I so choose!"

Djavul's eyes flared redly, but he spoke not.

Sovartus turned away from the demon and looked to the wall nearest him.
Three children languished there, two boys and a girl, bound as was the
demon, but by more mundane means: They were chained to the gray wall.
The children seemed beyond fear; they stood or sat staring at nothing,
as if drugged. There were three of them-only three.

Sovartus turned back toward the demon. "Look upon these children," he
commanded.

The demon beheld the three. He nodded. "I see them."

"Do you know them?"

"I know them," Djavul said. "They are Three of the Four. The girl is
Water, the boys are Earth and Air."

"Very good. So you would recognize the Fourth if you beheld her?"

"I would know her."

Sovartus nodded. He smiled, his own teeth flashing whitely in the frame
of his black mustache and beard. "I thought as much. Here, then, is
your task, demon. To the south and east lies the city of Mornstadinos;
within that city, the Child of Fire abides, but hidden. You will find
her and bring her to me, alive and well."

Djavul glared at the wizard. "And then?"

"And then I will release you to return to your pleasures in Gehanna."

"I shall look forward with great joy to seeing you there, human. "

Sovartus laughed. "Of that I have no doubt; but when I arrive in Hell,
it will likely be as your master, demon. More, you shall help me to
achieve it; best, then, you take care not to offend me meanwhile."

Djavul's sharp teeth grated together and he started to speak in his
metal-shredding voice. "I see-" He stopped.

Sovartus's black eyes gleamed in the light of the guttering lamps
lining the walls. "Yes? Speak."

Though the demon was obviously reluctant, he nodded and said, "As I saw
the Essence of the three children, so, too, I see your Essence,
sorcerer. There is power in you, much power, and the promise of greater
forces hangs upon you like a malignant shroud."

"Ah," Sovartus said, nodding in return, "you are perceptive for one
born of the pit. You recognize how well-served you would be to avoid
antagonizing me, then?"

"Aye. The Black-Souled Ones allow many things in their dealings with
men. You may well do as you speak. I shall serve you, human. I have no
desire to spend ten thousand years buried in black mud at the bottom of
the Vilayet Sea."

"You are wise for a mere demon," Sovartus said. "When I arrive in Hell
to rule after a few thousand years-after tiring of my rule here-mayhap
I shall need a wise assistant such as yourself. Consider such as you do
my bidding and so serve me well." He stroked his pointed beard with one
slender hand. "For now, I bid you leave. Accomplish your mission and
return quickly."

The demon gathered himself. "I hear, O master," he said, "and I obey."

Gigantic muscles flexed and bunched as the inhuman thing squatted and
prepared to spring. He leaped, and another bruised flash lit the dank
chamber; when it dimmed, Djavul was gone, leaving only the pools of
sludge staining the floor where he had stood.

Sovartus laughed again, and stared at the three children. Soon he would
have the Fourth; soon he would bring together the energies each held.
Then, ah, then, he would command all of the Four Elements and not
merely the undines and wind-devils; not merely the salamanders and
flames; not only the demi-whelves. No, when he at last had all Four of
them, he would be able to create and unleash the Thing of Power, a
force so awesome even Black-Souled Set himself must take notice.

Sovartus spun away, and his black silk robe flared about him. He was
the most powerful of all the Black Square, and save for Hogistum, he
always had been.

Hogistum had sought to keep the power from him by hiding it. The old
one had ensorcelled a maiden, and then impregnated her. The maiden had
birthed four children at once, quadruplets, and each child carried
within it the lines of power for one Element. They had been separated
at birth and scattered, to keep Sovartus from them.

Thirteen years he had searched, thirteen long years, and all the while
he looked, he studied the arcane, to improve his skills. He had
traveled to the corners of the world, seeking the children and
knowledge. In the far-eastern jungles of Khitai he had dealt with the
frozen-faced and yellow-skinned wizards; in the ruined temples of
Stygia he had learned the skills of the Black Ring. Too, the mage had
seen with his own eyes the emerald-skinned alien monster with the
misshapen head of an elephant enshrined in Yara's tower in Arenjun, the
Zamorian City of Thieves. Yes, he had learned his evil lessons well;
even without the power of the Four, Sovartus was a force to be reckoned
with, a sorceror second to none in all of Corinthia. Such power was not
enough, of course, not when he could be the supreme power in all of the
world.

Sovartus smiled as he stalked forth from the chamber and walked down
the dark hallway toward the main hall of Castle Slott. Rats chittered
and fled from his passage, and spiders climbed higher in their webs
when he passed them.

Hogistum was dead, poisoned by Sovartus's hand, and the slain
magician's plan was no more than a fading memory. The children had been
gathered, save the one, and he possessed them. Sovartus had spent
fortunes to obtain the first three. His henchmen had found them in
Turan; in Ophir; in Poitain; how ironic that the last one would be in
Corinthia, practically upon his own doorstep! He had three of them, and
the bodies of those mortals who had aided or known of his quest now fed
the fishes or more unspeakable water creatures, or lay moldering where
no man's eye would ever behold them. When his demon collected the last,
he would triumph. Too bad the old man was dead; Sovartus would like him
to see the victory. Perhaps he would bring Hogistum back to life. He
would have that power. Yes, that would be a fine jest, to bring the old
mage back long enough to savor his failure and Sovartus's victory. He
laughed loudly at the thought. He would do it, by Set he would. It was
not every man who could bring back his murdered father from the gray
lands.


Chapter One

In the nameless village at the foot of a pass from Zamora through the
Karpash Mountains into Corinthia, a ramshackle inn squatted forlornly.
To this rickety and dilapidated place rode a tall and muscular young
man, astride a fine buckskin horse for which he seemed ill-suited. The
deep-chested horse carried a fine saddle and exotic silk blankets, and
had bridle fittings of silver cast in the shapes of cranes and frogs;
obviously, this was an animal belonging to a rich man.

The rider, however, wore a harbergeon of old and cracked leather, sans
both mail and basinet, and his half-breeches appeared supple, but
well-stained with age and sweat. His cape was ragged about the edges,
if well spun. Strapped to his forearm in a sheath rode a long and
wicked-looking dagger; and by his side a great broadsword with a
plainly wrapped grip nestled in an even less ornate leather scabbard.
The evening winds blew the young giant's black hair into an unruly mane
about his head, and his deepset eyes cast back the setting sun's fiery
glare almost as if those eyes held blue fire of their own. He was Conan
of Cimmeria, and if any man noticed the discrepancy between horse and
rider as the pair approached the inn, none made so bold as to speak of
it.

A boy of ten stood near the doorway of the inn, which, like the
village, boasted no name that the rider could see. The man leaped from
the back of the horse and observed the lad.

"Ho, boy, have you a stable in this place?"

"Aye." He stared at Conan's attire. "For those who can pay."

The boy's look amused Conan. He laughed and fished around inside the
pouch on his belt, producing a small silver coin, which he tossed
toward the boy.

Deftly, the boy snatched the coin from the air. He grinned widely at
the man. "Mitra! For this you could near own the stable!"

"Food and water and brushing for my horse will be sufficient," Conan
said. "And there might be another coin such as that for you on the
morrow if my horse's coat gleams."

"It will outshine the sunrise!" the boy avowed. He leaped to catch the
proffered bridle.

"Bide a moment," Conan ordered. He lifted a pair of heavy bags from the
horse, being careful to keep the gold coins within from clinking as he
did so. Those bags would better pass the night undisturbed next to him
and not in some stable; Conan knew about thieves, for he was one
himself. He watched the boy lead his horse away, and then turned to
enter the inn.

The inside of the place certainly did not belie the promise of the
exterior; the main room was dirty and enshrouded in smoke that curled
from a sputtering fire in a blackened fireplace at the far end. There
were no windows; the only other light came from cracks in the low roof
and a few smoky oil lamps set on several of the rough wooden tables.

A fat man in a stained apron scurried toward Conan, his gapped smile
displaying much blackness and rot. "Ah, good evening, my lord. How may
I serve?"

Conan looked around. There were ten people in the room, and those he
saw seemed as disreputable as the place itself. There were dark-skinned
Zamorians, of course; two short and slant-eyed men who looked as if
they might be Hyrkanians; a pair of sad-eyed and weary-looking women in
torn pantaloons who could only be plying the oldest of all trades;
finally, perched on a stool was a short and round man with gray hair,
who watched Conan as a hawk might watch a serpent.

Conan turned back to the innkeeper. "Would you have other than moldy
bread to sup upon in this wretched place? And wine less sour than
vinegar?"

"Of course, my lord-"

"And a room for the night," Conan interrupted. "A room with a door and
bolt."

"Mitra has blessed my establishment with such things as you seek," the
fat innkeeper said, showing his blackened teeth again.

Conan grunted. "Fetch me food then, and we shall see if Mitra's
blessing extends to the cook. And wine, your best."

The man appeared to appraise Conan shrewdly; but before he could speak,
the wide-shouldered youth flipped a coin at him. The fat innkeeper's
eyes widened as he caught the reflection of dim lamplight on yellow,
even as the disk flew, through the air. He snatched the piece from its
flight faster than a falcon slays a thrush, then opened his fingers
carefully, to keep the coin hidden from the curious stares of the
others in the dank room. But the flash of gold would not be denied.

"Gold!" The fat man's whisper spoke at once of greed and lust, and
reverence. He made as if to bite the gold, to assure its purity, but
apparently considered the stage of his teeth and only weighed the money
in his palm. He clamped his fingers tightly around the shining disk and
glanced around at his patrons, seeming, as he did so, kin to some wily
rodent.

Conan chose that moment to stretch his mighty frame. Sinews cracked and
joints popped as he rolled his massive shoulders and flexed his thick
arms. The sounds and motion seemed to startle the innkeeper from his
greed-fed trance. He bowed, mumbled, and hurried away. He was back in a
moment bearing a wineskin and cup, which he fawningly placed on the
table nearest Conan.

"Your meal will be prepared at once, my lord."

Conan grinned, aware that the riffraff of the tavern were staring at
him. Disdaining the cup, he snatched up the wineskin and lifted it over
his head. The stream of thin red wine tasted slightly bitter; but it
was cool enough. Thrice Conan filled his mouth and swallowed before he
downtilted the skin for breath. He stretched again, his muscles dancing
like tame beasts under his deeply tanned skin, then sat upon the rude
bench next to the table.

Around him the inn's customers turned back to pursue their own
business-save the rotund man, who continued to watch the young giant
from the corner of one pale eye.

The innkeeper returned in a short while bearing a wooden platter
covered with a slab of steaming beef. The meat was as thick as Conan's
hand and dripping blood, being only lightly seared, but the Cimmerian
fell to eating, using his razor-edged Karpashian dagger to hew great
chunks from the steak. He chewed lustily and washed the half-raw meat
down with streams of the thin wine. It was not the best meal he had
ever had, but it would suffice.

When he finished the meat and most of the wine, Conan turned to search
for the innkeeper. Before he could do more than glance around, the
obsequious man with the blacktoothed smile appeared at Conan's elbow.
"My lord?"

"I am no man's lord," Conan said, feeling sated with food and wine.
"But I am tired and would see the room Mitra saw fit to bless in this .
. . establishment."

"At once."

The innkeeper led Conan from the smoke-filled room, through a narrow
corridor, to a steep set of wooden stairs. Each step creaked as Conan
trod upon it, so that his ascent reminded him of a twittering flock of
feeding birds. He grinned. Good. No thief could climb these steps to
take a man unawares in the night.

The room was scarcely an improvement on the scene below, save that it
was empty of anything but a pile of clean straw and a rough wool
blanket. There was a round hole cut in the outside wall-window enough
to admit air or moonlight, but too small for a man to enter. The door
seemed solid, and there was a well-oiled brass bolt that slid easily in
its recess to seal the portal. Odd, that. The bolt was the best-kept
part of the room. Conan waved the innkeeper away, bolted the door, and
tossed his leather bags full of loot into the corner near the mound of
hay.

Something scuttled away from the solid thump of the gold and silver,
chittering unseen in the dimness. Conan pulled his dagger and crept
closer to the rude bed, his blue eyes alert. When he was ready, he
rustled one edge of the hay.

The rat burst forth, fleeing, but he moved too slowly.

Conan stabbed with remarkable speed and impaled the brown-furred rodent
on his dagger.

Conan grinned. That one would not be nibbling at him this night. He
stood and flicked the dagger toward the small window, flinging the dead
rodent from the blade, outside into the deepening evening. He wiped the
dagger on the hay, sheathed the knife, and settled himself for sleep.

A whisper of a noise came in the hours before false dawn. It was so
faint that it would have seemed to be hidden from ordinary ears by the
night-creaks of the inn growing older. Conan awakened instantly, his
senses alert.

Skritch. Skritch. It was a tiny thing, this aural intruder upon his
rest; but it boded ill, for Conan detected in the noise the scrape of
metal upon metal. Only a man used instruments of iron or brass, and a
man at this hour meant danger.

Through the hole in the wall a faint beam of sinking moon and starlight
entered the room. This was hardly enough for a cat to navigate by, but
the Cimmerian's vision was sharper than other men's, and honed by many
past dangers. He swept his gaze around the room until he focused upon
the cause of the nocturnal sound.

In the pale glow Conan saw a thin wire sliding between the door and its
jamb, a hooked bit of copper that tugged at the well-oiled bolt.

For a moment Conan felt a prickle of fear along the back of his neck.
No man born of woman had mounted the stairs that he had climbed
earlier-this he would wager. He reached for his sword.

Suddenly, the greasy bolt slid free and the door burst inward. Three
men rushed into the room, each wielding a dagger raised to strike.

Conan leaped up, jerked his broadsword free of its scabbard, and lunged
for the assassins. If they thought to slay a sleeping man, they were
sadly mistaken, for the Cimmerian attacked.

The first man was spitted before he saw his mortal danger. Conan ripped
his sword free as the man fell gargling in his death throes. The
Cimmerian instantly swung the heavy blade with a force denied all but
the most powerful of men. The second assassin half-turned and managed
to raise his dagger in defense, but his effort counted for naught.
Sparks flew as the broadsword mated with the dagger and swept it aside
as if it were no more than a feather. Conan's blade bit deeply into the
villain's side, shearing ribs and organs alike, and the man screamed in
his final agony as he fell, to lie prone upon the filthy wooden floor.

The third man backed quickly away into the tight corridor, fear
staining his features.

The wall across the corridor kissed the would-be assassin's back. He
looked frantically to the right and left, but seemed to know that if he
turned to flee, the berserk giant would be on him instantly. He
switched grips on the dagger, holding it like a sword, and jabbed the
point in Conan's direction.

Just then, from the stairs came a cacophony of screeching footfalls.
Flickering tapers threw ghostly fingers of yellow light ahead of their
bearers. Conan did not take his attention from the dagger-bearing
thief; however, the man must have thought it so. He lunged at Conan,
seeking to bury the point of his weapon in the Cimmerian's groin. Conan
leaped lithely to one side, fast for so large a man, and swung his
sword overhead and downward with all his might. The sharp edge
connected with the villain's head and bisected it, as a cook might
split a melon. Gore splashed patterns upon the walls of the corridor,
now better-lit by the innkeeper and the roundish man Conan had seen
earlier in the common room. Conan turned toward these two with the
point of his bloody sword aimed at the innkeeper's heart, a heart
hidden under a grimy nightshirt.

The innkeeper went deathly pale and began to sweat profusely.
"P-p-please, sir, I have a family!"

Conan fixed the man with an unblinking stare, with eyes blazing like
two glowing blue coals. He looked away, finally, at the mortal remains
of those men who would have killed him had he been less vigilant. "Who
were these scum?" he asked, pointing his blade at the nearest corpse.

"I-I-I know them not, sir," the innkeeper managed to stammer. Sweat
rolled from him in fat, greasy drops that plopped onto the floor by his
bare feet.

The short rotund man spoke. "Zamorian cutpurses, it would seem. They
arrived at the inn only earlier this day."

Conan regarded the man. "I am called Conan of Cimmeria, but late of
Shadizar. Who might you be?"

"I am Loganaro, friend, a merchant from Mornstadinos, in Corinthia. I
am returning there from a visit to Koth, where I have-ah-business
interests."

Conan nodded and turned his gaze back to the innkeeper. "How came these
carrion-feeders to my room, owner of this Mitra-cursed dog barn? Not by
way of those stairs."

"G-g-good sir, there is a second set of stairs at the far end of the
corridor. B-bet-better-constructed ones."

"Aye. Now explain the reasons for the oiled bolt, dog."

"B-b-bolt? It-it was but recently installed, sir. The craftsman would
have oiled it." The innkeeper swallowed and nodded. as though he were a
puppet with a loosened string. "Yes, that must be it; the craftsman
must have done it."

Conan shook his head. "A likely story. I am disposed to look up this
craftsman and ask him."

The innkeeper turned an ashen hue. "B-b-but he is no longer in our
village. He-ah-left-for Turan."

Conan spat at the floor. He squatted and used the ragged cloak of the
dead cutpurse to clean his blade, then inspected the steel for nicks.
There were no fresh marks on the blade; the thief's dagger must have
been of poorly made steel.

Smoothly, Conan rose to tower over the trembling innkeeper. "Drag this
offal away from my room," he ordered the innkeeper. "I would return to
my disturbed slumber."

"S-s-sleep?" The fat man seemed horrified at the idea.

"What else? No cock has crowed, and I am tired. Be quick, and I may
overlook the matter of the oiled bolt."

Conan grinned as he ate portions of the breakfast the innkeeper had
laid before him. The food was well-prepared and hot. If he belched, the
owner of the dog kennel called an inn came running to inquire if he
could be of service.

As Conan sat there the short merchant approached him. He addressed the
Cimmerian. "Do you travel west, by happenstance?"

"Aye. To Nemedia."

"Then you will ride the north fork of the Corinthian road through
Haunted Pass."

"Haunted Pass?"

The merchant smiled. "A name to scare children, no doubt. The wind
sings strange songs as it makes its journey over the rocks. There are
hollow places that give back sounds some men find unnerving."

Conan laughed, and tore a final chunk of fresh bread away from the
third loaf the innkeeper had brought him. He washed the bread down with
a sip of wine. "In the land of my birth we know of such wind-flutes,"
Conan said. "Even small children in Cimmeria have no fear of such
sounds, much less a man of eighteen winters."

Loganaro shrugged under his dark brown robe. "There is also a haunted
lake, called Spokesjo, near the summit of the pass."

"And do fish blow bubbles at unwary travelers from this haunted lake?"
Conan laughed again, amused by his own humor.

The merchant's face grew serious. "Nay, no fish swim in this lake.
Those things which do are better left unmentioned, save to say one
should avoid the shores of the place in which they dwell."

Conan shrugged. "I travel through Corinthia to Nemedia, and this pass
is the route by which I go, wind-noises and wives' tales
notwithstanding."

Loganaro grinned. "Ah, a brave man. As it happens, I will also be
returning to my country by this route. Perhaps you would care for a
companion?"

Conan shook his head. "Nay, merchant. I travel better when I travel
alone."

The merchant shrugged. "As you wish. I shall be before or behind you,
in any event. I would not startle you should you note me upon your
trail."

"It would take more than a single merchant on the road to startle me,
Loganaro."

The short man nodded and said no more, but there was a look of
amusement about him Conan did not care for. It was as if he withheld
some deep and dark secret from the young Cimmerian.


Chapter Two

The snow lay like a thick and crusty blanket on the rocks girding the
pass. The breath of Conan and his buckskin horse fogged the freezing
air as they wound along the trail. Conan took no notice of the
temperature, save to pull his fur cloak a bit tighter about him.

The buckskin mount picked its way slowly along the rocky path. There
was little wind, but Conan heard a distant howling of air across some
hollow. He grinned. Wind-flutes might scare the timid, but not a
Cimmerian. The slow clop-clop of the horse's hooves accompanied the
faint echo of the wind playing its ghostly tunes.

Ahead, Conan saw the surface of the small lake of which he'd been told.
He shook his head, and his square-cut black hair moved stiffly in the
cold. The lake was frozen from shore to shore, and Conan would wager
half the gold in the sack mounted behind him that the ice was as thick
as his own well-thewed leg. It was less than likely any evil spirits
would be emerging from that lake.

The trail passed within a few yards of the lake's frozen edge. The
horse picked its way along in a lazy fashion, lulling Conan with the
motion.

Halfway along the length of the lake the horse stopped suddenly and
turned its head sideways to stare at the giant slab of ice.

Conan looked, but saw nothing. He dug his heels into the beast's sides.
"Move," he said.

The horse whinnied and shook its head, almost as if answering him. The
animal snorted and began to sidestep away from the lake. "Foolish
fly-brain!" Conan said. He kicked the horse harder. "I will feast on
horseflesh this night if you do not move!"

There came a cracking sound, loud in the silence, and Conan jerked his
gaze away from the recalcitrant horse and stared at the lake. A long,
jagged fracture appeared on the surface of the ice; quickly, another
appeared, then a third. It was almost as if something were pushing up
from under the ice.

The surface of the frozen lake burst asunder, and chunks of ice the
size of large dogs flew through the air before smashing back down. As
Conan watched, beings began to clamber from the fissure onto the
surface of the lake. And what beings they were! Each was man-sized, but
shaped like a great ape. They were pure white, without facial
features-no mouths or noses or eyes-and each was as smooth as polished
crystal. A dozen of the creatures scrambled from the ice and began to
run. For an instant Conan thought them pursued by something and
uninterested in him, for they ran at angles away from him. Then he
realized what they were doing: cutting off his escape!

Conan dug his heels into the horse's ribs hard, and slapped the beast's
rump with one hand, trying to force it to flee. The horse, however, was
possessed by primal terror; it reared and bucked, trying to throw its
rider. Conan clamped his knees against the sides of the panicked beast,
and by sheer force of his massive strength managed to hold on. The
horse stopped bucking, but then seemed to freeze in its terror,
becoming as a statue in the cold air.

The white monsters shambled toward him with hands outstretched,
reaching.

To Gehanna with the horse! Conan leaped from the animal and drew his
broadsword even as he flew through the air. He landed solidly, never
pausing as he charged the nearest of the white monsters. When he came
within range, he swung the sword hard.

The blade sheared one of the ice-beast's hands from its arm, and the
hand fell to the ground with a thump. But no blood circulated in that
frigid body; from the stump of the icy arm there issued instead a
gusher of clear liquid, a stream as clear as water!

Cold fingers bit into Conan's shoulder and he spun to face another
smooth beast. His sword sang as desperation drove his slash. Luck
guided his aim: His blade lopped the water monster's head from its
neck. The thing spasmed, then released its hold on him as it fell.
Another fountain of crystal fluid jetted from the falling body.

By Crom, the abominations could die well enough! But there were more
than ten against him; bad odds, and Conan was no man's fool. He needed
a path out, and he would have to carve it quickly!

Muscles of striated flesh flexed and bunched, driving sharp steel
against the denizens. Thrice, cold hands were laid upon him; three
times did Conan chop the offending hands away. He slashed, cut,
stabbed, and kicked, showering the frozen ground with shards and watery
chunks of the faceless monsters. They were many, but they were clumsy
compared to the whirling, leaping man. Conan raged against them,
destroying three more. The fluid of their bodies steamed and froze in
the hard chill as Conan continued to weave his pattern of steel-laced
death.

It was a fight that could have but one end, he knew, if he stayed and
tried to slay them all. He was tired; the sword was heavy in his hands,
and there were still eight of the shambling monsters trying to kill
him. Time to depart.

Conan turned and ran in the direction from which he had come. The
eyeless beasts, followed him, stringing themselves out into a line.
Conan managed a grin even in his exhaustion. Good. They were not only
clumsy, they were no tacticians.

Abruptly, he stopped and turned, then ran back at the monsters. They
were too far apart now to reach him in force; he faced a single
creature, the largest of the group. Conan ducked the wild swing of the
monster's fist. He raised his sword and brought it down smartly. The
ancient steel bit through the thing's leg and slashed the limb away
from the body. The water monster fell in silence, blocking Conan's path
behind him. Conan sprinted away in the direction he had been heading
when first attacked. Now, if he could only collect his cursed horse!

A sharp whinny pulled Conan up from his run. He turned and observed his
mount being dragged toward the rent in the lake's surface by several
more of those things that harried him. Still more of the evil spawn
emerged from the lake to help clutch at the horse. There must have been
at least twenty of them now. Half of them subdued the horse, while the
others turned toward Conan.

His horse, all his food, and the stolen sack of gold were being dragged
down into Spokesjo Lake! For an instant Conan chased them, his sword
held high and rage befogging his mind. He stopped. No horse was worth
dying for. There were thousands of horses and many rich men whose gold
he could steal, if he lived.

"Crom take you all!" he yelled at the crystal-clear bloodless monsters
before he turned and loped away.

On the road descending from the pass Conan spied a mounted figure in
the distance. Though he increased his speed from a walk to a trot, then
to a run, the figure grew no closer. He shouted a greeting, but
received no answer; the rider never paused. Could this be the merchant
he had met in that dog kennel of an inn earlier? If so, why did the man
seem so intent on maintaining the distance between them? Cursing the
watery attackers who had drowned his horse, Conan kept on.

After a weary day's walk Conan sighted the city of Mornstadinos, the
first Corinthian city he had seen. True, there were no towers or tall
spires such as graced Shadizar or Arenjun, but the settlement boasted a
high wall and many buildings, even if most seemed more squat than those
in other cities he had known. It would serve. If he hoped to continue
his journey to Nemedia, he would have to obtain another horse and more
silver or gold, and here of necessity would be the place to find both.

As the ground passed steadily under his boots Conan realized he would
be at least another day on the road. From a vantage point on a foothill
he could see a large forest on the far side of the city, and what
seemed a vast plain beyond that. No travelers came toward him from the
town, which was unfortunate. A fat merchant would no doubt be carrying
exotic foods and valuables of which Conan could avail himself. Aside
from his sword, his Karpashian dagger, and his clothes, the Cimmerian
had nothing but a purse bearing a few coppers, enough for perhaps one
meal and a few cups of bad wine. An unpleasant prospect, but one he had
learned to accept; it was not the first time going hungry had been his
lot.

Well. The city lay ahead and his belly would manage on roots and stream
water until he reached its gates. Conan trudged stoically onward.

Loganaro judged that the tall barbarian was now an hour behind him,
thanks to the gallop into which he had forced his horse. The beast was
lathered with sweat, but this was of little importance: What mattered
was that there be time for Loganaro to contact one of his patrons. Or,
in this case, a patroness.

While the horse wandered along eating sedge grasses the man began his
preparations for far speaking, a magic of no small power for which he
had paid dearly. Even so, there was another price to be paid for each
use of the talent. Loganaro pulled a short fat-bladed dagger from
beneath his robes and clutched it tightly in his right hand. Clearing
his sleeve away from his left arm, he revealed a forearm covered with
thin scars. Some of these were old and faded by sun and age; others lay
fresh upon his flesh, in shades ranging from angry red to pale pink.
Loganaro picked a spot between two of the younger lines and laid the
tip of the dagger against it. Gritting his teeth, he pressed the
needlesharp tip into his flesh.

Blood welled as he drew the blade downward, scoring tanned flesh with a
thin line of living ruby liquid. There was some small pain, a necessary
portion of the spell; more, there was the salty fluid itself, the major
ingredient. The dagger's chore finished, Loganaro laid it aside, to
replace the steel with his middle finger. He gathered the blood on the
finger's tip until that member, was fairly coated; raising the finger
skyward, the man intoned a phrase he'd been taught: "Hematus cephii
augmentum sichtus."

Quickly following the words, Loganaro drew upon his forehead in blood
the three arcane symbols that completed the spell: the adulation rind,
his own personal chop, and the double curve that represented his
patroness. Then he waited.

Five minutes pounded past, on their way to join the uncounted lines of
time that had marched before them. On the birth of the sixth minute a
voice came to Loganaro-a woman's voice. Scarcely above a whisper, the
voice carried intensity and power within its folds.

Why have you called?

Loganaro spoke to the evening air. "Mistress, I may have found that
which you seek."

I seek many things, insectus minor. Which thing in particular do you
pretend to have discovered?

"That which will complete your Incantation of Animation for your ebon
simulacrum, the Prince of the Lance."

Many have offered that final ingredient, servant. All have been found
wanting.

"I think not this time, Mistress. I saw this man slay three experienced
cutthroats with as little effort as a man takes to wipe wine from his
lips. More, he traveled through Haunted Pass unaided by any conjur or
cantrip."

A lucky man to move while the undines slept.

"Nay, Mistress, those creatures slumbered not under the ice of the
haunted lake. They came forth in great numbers and tried to carry this
mortal to their watery mansions. He slew many of the monsters. His
horse was taken, and I thought for a moment he would follow them under
the ice to retrieve the beast."

He accomplished this unaided?

"Indeed. I thought it best to remain unseen."

No doubt. I have never thought you a candidate for my Prince's
assemblage. This man, however, interests me. Continue to observe him. I
shall make contact with you with instructions when I deem it should be
so.

"And my reward . . . ?"

Fear not, low one; the gold you value shall be yours if the heart of
this man be sufficiently brave. The word of Djuluva the Witch is her
bond.

"To doubt such never entered my mind, Mistress."

Has this man a name?

"He is called Conan, Mistress. A barbarian from Cimmeria."

Within her manse in Mornstadinos, Djuluva sundered the magical link
with Loganaro and leaned away from the polished steel mirror that
gathered her focus of mystic energies. She beheld her image: a
fire-haired woman of thirty whose face appeared ten years younger
smiled back at her. Her thin gown of raw silk revealed a shapely body
lush of hip and breast and much experienced in carnal ways. The image
held within the steel reflected the wicked smile of the comely witch as
it seemed to mirror her thoughts and feelings. No man born of woman was
a match for Djuvula in the arts of lovemaking, she knew. Many had
tried; all had failed.

Realizing that no mortal man would ever be able to keep her pleased,
Djuluva had decided to undertake the creation of an ersatz-man, a
simulacrum she could hold in perpetual thrall, to satisfy her every
whim. It had been simple enough to begin the undertaking. Her magic was
particularly powerful when it came to such things. Unfortunately, some
of the components of the assemblage were less simple to obtain. Her
ebon-skinned Prince of the Lance lay in all his perfection in her
bedchamber, yet unable to function without the final ingredient
required for her witchery: the fresh heart of a truly brave man. Dozens
of organs had been tried; all had failed to animate her lover. The
so-pronounced brave hearts had done nothing whatsoever. Djuvula's
disgust was profound.

Despite his obsequiousness, Loganaro was usually reliable in his
dealings with her; perhaps, just perhaps, he had finally found what
Djuvula needed. Such a thought was worthy of the smile she shared with
her mirror. She would prepare her potions, just in case.

A tall man stood next to a much-scarred log, which leaned against a
granite wall. The place was a remote corner of the estate of Lemparius,
Center Strand of the Senate's Treble Whip, and the man none other than
the owner of that vast acreage. In his long-fingered hands Lemparius
held a device of brass and gold, shaped like a ball within a cube, but
twisted in some perverse manner that was easy to see but difficult to
describe. A voice issued from the device, that of Loganaro the free
agent, speaking to the witch Djuluva. The conversation was not meant
for Lemparius's ears, but such privacy was beneath the senator's
consideration. He listened as he chose, using the storora, the "magic
ear" constructed by some nameless Stygian artificer dead a hundred
years.

"---called Conan, Mistress. A barbarian from Cimmeria. "

Lemparius laughed, the sound much like a growl, as he adjusted some
small subdivision of the device he held. The voices of the fat agent
and the witch dwindled and finally vanished. Carefully, the senator
bent and placed the mechanical miracle behind the man-thick log that
formed an oblique angle against the massive granite wall. There was a
special recess designed for the storora there, cut into the stone. The
senator did not want anything to happen to the Stygian magic box; it
was most useful, and, so far as he knew, it was unique.

Satisfied that the arcane device was safely nestled away, the senator
turned around. A warm wind ruffled his long blond hair, giving his head
almost a tawny glow. The sun glinted from his eyes as he moved, and
that glint showed strangely shaped pupils more akin to a creature
designed for predatory attack from above than to a man. Methodically,
Lemparius removed his clothing. He stripped away his tunic and silken
underbreeches first, then his sandals, until he stood naked on sandy
ground bounded by a wall as tall as three men. He was alone in the vast
clearing, so none beheld his nakedness.

None saw what followed.

Lemparius began to change. His contours altered, the skin and muscles
flowing like fresh potter's clay. Bones crackled; cartilage tore
asunder; the blond hair of a man thickened and turned into the tawny
pelt of an animal, the hair sprouting as might weeds in some hellish
garden. Lemparius's face seemed to sink. His nose flattened and
broadened at the nostrils; his mouth stretched and his teeth fused and
grew until the canines became fangs.

What had been a man groaned as it dropped onto all fours. Claws
replaced nails, paws metamorphized from fingers and toes. The man's
form shrank in places, stretched in other places, and when at last the
metamorphosis was complete, the sthenic form that stood there was no
longer any design of ape.

That which prowled the estate of Lemparius, one of the Treble Strands
of the Senate Whip, was the spawn of cats: It was Lemparius, panther,
one of the werefolk.

And the cat-beast was hungry.


Chapter Three

The sun had made but a small part of its journey across the morning sky
when Conan entered the city of Mornstadinos. From a distance the
Cimmerian had been unable to perceive the convolutions of the narrow
streets. He now traversed myriad alleys, cul-de-sacs, and cobbled roads
which appeared to have been laid out by someone besotted, blind, or
mad. If a pattern existed to the maze, Conan was unable to discern it.
Here sat a stable full of horses and stinking of dung; next to the
stable stood a temple replete with cowled oblates; beyond that edifice
an open air market dealt in fruit and baked goods.

The barbarian's stomach rumbled, insistent in its hunger. He strode to
the market, attracting more than a few stares at his muscular form.
From a woven basket Conan extracted a loaf of hard black bread. He
poked the loaf with one finger, then waved the bread at an old woman.
"How much'?" he said.

The woman named a figure: "Four coppers."

Conan shook his head. "Nay, old one. I do not wish to buy your house
and grandchildren, only this loaf of stale bread."

The old woman cackled. "Since it is obvious you are a stranger, I shall
make you a bargain. Three coppers."

"Again, I have no desire for the entire basket of these rocks you would
sell as bread, only the one." Conan waved the loaf and scowled.

"Ah, you would cheat an old woman of her hard labor? Very well then, I
will accept two coppers and the loss so that you may think us
hospitable in the Jewel of Corinthia."

"Where is your dagger, old woman? Surely a cutpurse who would steal my
money must need a blade. Though I will allow that your tongue and wit
are sharp enough."

The woman cackled again. "Ah, you're a handsome boy; you remind me of
my son. I could not see you starve for want of a copper. One will buy
you the best bread on the street. "

"Done, Grandmother."

Conan reached into his pouch and retrieved one of his few coins. He
handed it to the old woman, who nodded, smiling.

"One other favor," Conan said. "You are right in calling me a stranger.
Where might a man find an inn and some wine with which to wash down the
best bread on the street?"

"A man of means might find a number of places. But a man who would
haggle over a few coppers with an old woman has fewer choices, meseems.
Down this road, two turnings to the right and one to the left, such a
man could find the Milk of Wolves Inn. And if this man was some
outlander who might not be able to read civilized writings, he might
look for a picture of a wolf salient above the door."

"A wolf what?"

"Standing on her hind legs about to leap," the old woman said, cackling
again.

"Well met, then, mistress baker. And farewell."

Conan located the Milk of Wolves Inn with no difficulty and, bearing
his loaf of black bread, strode inside. The youngful hour seemed no
barrier to the fair-sized crowd standing or seated at long wooden
tables around the room. Most of the men appeared to be locals, judging
from looks and clothing; several women were serving steaming bowls, and
others offered hints of pleasures other than food or drink. He had been
in many such places. Passable, for the most part, and cheap.

The Cimmerian found a vacant place at one end of a table and seated
himself. He looked around the room, scrutinizing the patrons. Most of
the men were probably poor but engaged in some honest trade: coopers,
smiths, tradesmen, and the like. To his left Conan saw a group of four
men who looked more unsavory, probably cutpurses or strong-arm thieves.
The largest of the four was of medium height, but very broad and
heavily muscled, with dark eyes and blue-black hair; further, he had an
enormous hook nose, which resembled a bird's beak. Conan had seen men
with similar countenances before, men bearing a mix of Shemite and
Stygian blood. This beak-faced one looked dangerous, not a man to turn
one's back on.

Seated near the four was an odd pair: an old man with white hair and
the weight of a good sixty or seventy winters riding his stooped
shoulders, and a girl, a child of twelve or thirteen. The old man was
dressed in a long robe with full sleeves. The girl, auburn-haired. wore
blue hose and boots and a short jerkin of supple leather. Additionally,
she carried a short sword under a broad belt, in the Turanian style.

"Your pleasure, sir?"

Conan looked up at the speaker, a fat wench draped in a shapeless dress
much stained by food and drink. The barbarian fetched out one of his
last three coppers and held it up. "Would this buy me a cup of decent
wine?"

"It will buy you a cup of wine. How decent such a beverage is I leave
to your judgment."

"That bad, eh? Well, I am in no position to be choosy. I shall risk the
vintage."

The girl left, taking Conan's coin. The Cimmerian halfturned, to study
the old man and the auburn-haired girl.

Conan quickly became aware that he was not the only person regarding
the pair. The four Conan had marked as strong-arm thieves were also
taking an uncommon interest. Such did not bode well for them, Conan
figured. But it was not his business. He turned his gaze back toward
the serving girl, who approached bearing an earthen mug brimming with
dark red liquid. Some of the wine sloshed over the lip of the cup as
she set it onto the table. Without saying anything, the girl moved off
to see to other patrons.

Conan tasted the wine. In truth, it was not bad; certainly, he had
drunk both better and worse. It would wash the bread down and help fill
his belly for now. Later he could worry about his next meal. He broke a
chunk of the black bread and tore off a mouthful of it with his strong
teeth. The bread, too, was passable. He chewed slowly, savoring the
taste.

Nearby, Beak-nose gestured at the old man and girl with a quick
movement of his head. Two of his companions rose from the table and
began to sidle toward the pair. One of the men toyed with the handle of
his dagger; the other man merely scratched at his scraggly beard.

Beneath drawn brows Conan watched, interested. He took another bite of
the bread.

When the two men were a few steps away from the old man, several people
seated or standing near the inn's doorway gasped. Conan glanced toward
the door and saw men scrambling to get out of the way of something. He
could not see what caused the commotion, but it was as if a wind cut a
path through a field of tall grain. As the crowd rippled aside, the
cause became apparent.

Scuttling across the sawdust-covered floor was a spider. This creature
was like none the Cimmerian had ever gazed upon before. It was the size
of his fist, covered with fine hair, and glowed like a lantern inlaid
with rubies: indeed, the thing pulsed, as might a throbbing heart.

Without hesitation the spider ran to the table at which the old man
sat; in an eyeblink it scuttled up a table leg; another second saw the
glowing arachnid leap in a graceful arc to land squarely in the mug of
wine the old man held in one gnarled fist. The wine emitted a loud
sizzle, a pop, and a small cloud of red vapor suddenly floated above
the mug.

With every eye locked into a stare upon him, the old man smiled calmly,
raised the cup to his lips, and drank.

Beak-nose's two minions suddenly decided they had business elsewhere,
that they were late for such business, and that further delay would be
disastrous. At least it seemed that way to Conan as he watched the two
men scramble over each other in order to be first to reach the door.

Behind Conan someone uttered an oath and muttered, "Magic!"

At that moment the girl seated next to the old man leaped up. She
tossed a moldy sunfruit into the air. Conan saw her set and guessed
what would happen. A heartbeat later the girl pulled the short sword
from its sheath smoothly and slashed it back and forth at the falling
fruit. At first it might have appeared she had missed with her strokes,
but Conan's sharp eyes beheld the truth and he grinned even as the
fruit continued its fall-now in four pieces instead of one.

The Cimmerian chewed another bite of bread. Here was a message for all
who chose this particular morning to breakfast at the Milk of Wolves
Inn: This old man and girl were not so helpless as they might appear;
best to tread elsewhere for easy pickings.

Beak-nose was not amused. He glowered at the old man, his own cup of
wine clutched so tightly that the knuckles of his dark hand were
chalk-white.

Someone at the door gasped again. A second spider appeared, this time
heading for the foot of Beak-nose's table. Without preamble the hairy
arachnid scrabbled up onto the rough wood and leaped into the man's
wine.

Conan laughed. A challenge! Would he dare to drink?

Uttering a cry of wordless rage, Beak-nose leaped up and tossed the mug
away with a back-handed flinging motion. The mug and its contents flew
straight at Conan's face.

There was no danger, Conan knew. He raised one muscled arm to bat the
mug away; unfortunately, the hand he chose contained the loaf of bread,
the better part of which was as yet uneaten. The wine drenched the
bread as the mug struck it, knocking Conan's breakfast onto the filth
of the muchtrodden sawdust floor. Conan stared at the bread as it
rolled over three times, covering itself with a layer of grime.

In better times, such an occurrence might be amusing, especially were
it to happen to someone else; but at the moment Conan failed to see the
humor. First his horse and all his gold had been lost; now his food.
The Cimmerian took a deep breath, and the air fed his quick rage as
wind feeds a hot fire.

Beak-nose had drawn his own blade and was advancing upon his intended
victims. The child bravely pulled her own small sword and moved to
cover the white-haired man, who tried to pull her back to safety.
Conan's broadsword hissed as the leather sheath stroked it in its
passage. Conan raised his blade and clenched the handle with both
hands.

"You-you filth!" Conan roared.

The man turned in surprise. What he saw must have surely alarmed him,
for he spun and tried to position his sword for a block or parry. At
the same time, he tried to backstep away. He managed neither. Conan's
sword caught Beak-nose in the middle of the breastbone and a hand's
span of sharp steel sliced its way downward, opening the man as might a
vivisectionist, from sternum to crotch. The man's face contorted in
shock as his entrails spilled through the massive rent in his body. He
fell backward, his spirit already on its way to join his ancestors.

Conan's rage was only partially spent. He looked around for the fourth
member of the band. That one, however, was not in evidence. Conan
glared at the inn's patrons, who all shrank away from the big youth
with the bloody sword. All save one.

The young girl approached Conan, smiling. She had sheathed her sword,
and when she drew near Conan saw that the girl barely reached his chest
in height. With great reluctance he lowered his broadsword. He stared
at the child. "Well?"

"Thank you, sir, for saving us." Her voice was warm. Indeed, the very
air seemed to grow warmer as she stood there staring up at the
Cimmerian.

"Do not thank me," Conan said, his voice still rough and angry. "The
scum destroyed my breakfast. Would that he had put up a better fight,
so that I might have made him suffer for it."

The girl's mouth opened into an O as Conan spoke, her face filled with
shock and puzzlement.

The murmur of voices began to rise to fill the inn.

"-you see that strike? Such power!"

"-split him like a chicken-foreigner from some backwoods-"

A thin man with a jagged scar that lifted both his lip and left nostril
came closer, warily watching the Cimmerian's unsheathed blade. He wore
a splattered apron that might have once been white, but now displayed
the remains of too many spilled wine cups and meals to be more than a
splotched gray. Likely the owner of the inn, Conan judged.

The innkeeper glanced down at the dead man. His perpetual sneer seemed
to increase a bit. "So, Arsheva of Khemi has finally picked the wrong
victim." The man looked up at Conan. "Few men deserve such an exit from
this life so much as he; he shall not be missed, and no mistake about
that." Pulling a rag from the pocket of his apron, he tendered it to
Conan. "Here. wipe your blade, sir, lest Arsheva's gore chew upon the
steel with teeth of rust."

Conan took the greasy rag and methodically cleaned his sword.

"Still," the man said, "the Senate's Deputation will no doubt
eventually arrive for an investigation of Arsheva's passing. I trust
you had sufficient reason to dispatch him to the next world?"

Conan slid his sword into its leathern home. "Aye," he began, "my
reasons were just. This offal-intended to attack myself and my
assistant," the old white-haired man said. "This man is our bodyguard;
he was merely performing his job in protecting us."

Conan stared at him. What was he about? He started to speak, but the
old man interrupted again. "We shall finish our breakfast whilst
awaiting the deputies. If you would bring my friend here a tray to
replace the meal he lost, along with a bottle of your better wine, I
should be most grateful." Here the old man raised a wrinkled and
age-twisted hand bearing a small coin of silver. "And the balance of
this for your trouble in this matter."

Scar-face took the coin, and nodded. "Aye. Obviously, a gentleman of
means such as yourself will have no difficulties convincing the
Senate's Deputation of your position in this matter." He drew back a
chair at the old man's table for Conan. "I'll tend to your meal, sir."

Seated with the old man and girl, Conan waited for answers to his
unasked questions. Earlier, he had held his tongue, reasoning that the
old man had some purpose in coming to his aid. Perhaps it was merely to
thank him for splitting the blackguard who would have attacked the
girl. While unintentional, Conan had served them, certainly. But the
barbarian now suspected there was more to be said than words of thanks.

The old man waited until the inn's patrons focused their attention
elsewhere before he spoke. "I am Vitarius and this"-he waved his arm in
its voluminous sleeve toward the girl-"this is Eldia, my assistant. I
am a conjurer of small talent, an entertainer of sorts. We wish to
thank you for taking our part in this matter."

Conan nodded, waiting.

"I sensed you were about to speak of your true reason for slaying our
would-be assassin-he who slew your loaf of bread-which is why I
injected my remarks."

Conan nodded again. The old man was not without sharpness of sight and
wit.

"The deputies who will come to speak with us are corrupt for the most
part. A few pieces of silver will expedite the resolution in our favor
without a doubt; still, carving a man for knocking a loaf of bread to
the floor is hardly considered just punishment in the minds of the
Mornstadinosian Senate. Protecting a patron from attack by a cutthroat
thief is sufficient reason to draw steel, however."

The young giant nodded. "I am Conan of Cimmeria. I have done you a
favor and you have thus returned it; let us then consider the scales
balanced."

"So be it," Vitarius said. "After breakfast, at least."

"Aye, that I will allow."

A serving girl arrived with a tray of hard rolls, fruit, and a greasy
cut of pork, along with another cup of wine of a vintage better than
the first drink Conan had partaken of. He ate with gusto, and washed
the food down with gulps of the red liquid.

Vitarius watched Conan intently. When the Cimmerian was done with his
meal, the conjurer spoke. "We are quits on debts; still, I have a
proposition in which you might find some merit. Eldia and I demonstrate
our simple illusions at street fairs and market gatherings, and we
could use a man such as yourself."

Conan shook his head. "I truckle not with magic."

"Magic? Surely you do not think my illusions are magic? Nay, I work
with the simplest of the arts, no more. Would I be in such a place as
this were I a real magician?"

Conan considered that. The old man had a point.

"Still, of what use could I be to a conjurer?"

Vitarius glanced at Eldia, then looked back at Conan.

"That blade of yours, for one. Your strength, for another. Eldia and I
are hardly capable of protecting ourselves from such as the one you
slew. She is adept with her own sword for demonstrating speed and
skill, but hardly a match for a full-grown man in a duel. My illusions
might scare the superstitious, but in the end can hardly sway a
determined assassin, as you have just seen."

Conan chewed on his lower lip. "I am bound for Nemedia."

"Surely such a considerable journey would be easier were you mounted
and well-appointed with supplies?"

"What makes you think I lack such things?"

Vitarius peered around the inn, then back at Conan. "Would a man of
property be spending his time in such a place?"

That reasoning was sound, but Conan followed the line a step further.
"Then, good conjure artist, why are you in such a place?"

Vitarius laughed, and slapped his thigh. "Ah, forgive me for
underestimating you, Conan of Cimmeria. That a man is a barbarian does
not mean he lacks wits. As it happens, we are conserving our money for
supplies; we, too, intend to leave this fair city, to travel westward.
Our path will veer southward, toward Argos. We wish to-ah-travel in
some style, in an armed caravan, and thus avoid possible encounters
with the bandits along the Ophir road."

"Ah." Conan studied Vitarius and Eldia. He was a thief, to be sure, but
he had nothing against honest work for a brief enough time. Besides, he
was in no great hurry to reach Nemedia. In any event, the journey would
be a great deal easier astride a good horse than on foot.

"A silver coin a day," Vitarius said. "We shall be ready to leave
within the month, I should think, and surely such a short diversion
would not inconvenience you greatly?"

Conan considered the sorry state of his money pouch. A good horse and
supplies could be had for twenty or thirty pieces of silver, certainly.
And such work, guarding a conjurer and his assistant from sneak thieves
for a moon or two, could not be too taxing.

Conan smiled at Vitarius. "Master of glowing spiders, you have engaged
a bodyguard."

From under the cowled robe of a priest, Loganaro watched the Cimmerian
talking to the old man and the girl. Djuvula's agent smiled to himself.
The barbarian's speedy and fearless assault upon the would-be assassin
was impressive. Such convinced him he had discovered the man he sought
to complete the witch's spell. Here was a brave man, to be sure.
Visions of gold danced in Loganaro's thoughts as he leaned back against
the wall of the inn and sipped his wine. Before long, the heart of that
giant barbarian with the fire-blue eyes would animate the witch's
simulacrum for her carnal pleasures.


Chapter Four

The young Cimmerian and the conjurer's assistant followed Vitarius
through a throng of brightly clad people come to celebrate the
arrival-of-age party of a local winemaker's daughter. As the conjurer
wended his way through the crowd, Conan decided there was more to the
man than he pretended. He had seen too many older men make fools of
younger ones to feel that an aged man was helpless; what a man lacked
in muscle he could sometimes make up for in wisdom.

"We shall try to find a spot near the winemaker's stall," Eldia told
Conan. "There the richer friends of the winemaker's daughter will
gather, and there our performance will be better rewarded. "

Conan said nothing. He saw a stalwart lad minding the reins of three
horses, one of which resembled greatly the animal he had lost to the
water-dwelling creatures only a few days past. The flame of fury in his
eyes burned brighter at the sight.

Vitarius chose that moment to turn and observe Conan. "You seem
troubled, Conan," the conjurer said.

"Nay, Vitarius, only by a foul memory. I once had a horse, the twin of
one of those we just passed. He was taken from me."

"I find such a thing difficult to understand. I would not like to be
the man foolish enough to try to relieve you of any of your
possessions, much less a horse of good breeding."

Conan grinned ruefully. "No man did the deed. I rode through a
snowbound passage in the mountains east of here. While so doing, I was
attacked by some water-dwelling beasts, the likes of which I have never
before encountered. White they were, and faceless, with blood as clear
as pure water."

"Undines!" Vitarius's voice carried both surprise and a touch of fear.

"You know of the monsters?"

"Aye. They are water spirits." Vitarius exchanged glances with Eldia,
and something of import passed between them. After a moment the old
conjurer looked back at Conan, and seemed to be weighing and measuring
the Cimmerian's observation of them. That peculiar warmth Conan had
noticed earlier seemed to emanate from Eldia as she stood next to him;
indeed the air seemed to smolder. The sun was high and its rays drew
sweat from most of the throng, but this new warmth was hotter.

Finally, Vitarius spoke. "It is said that the undines are now
controlled by Sovartus, Mage of the Black Square. He is an evil
sorcerer who, so it is rumored. seeks something-or someone-within the
city of Mornstadinos. To this end, Sovartus attempts to cut off the
city. Aside from the undines, there are other inhuman creatures held in
thrall by this villain, aiding him in his quest."

"Sovartus, eh?" Conan rolled the name from his tongue and tossed it
around in his mind. "Well, if this magician indeed controls the things
that stole my horse, then he owes me a replacement."

"It would not be wise to try to collect such, Conan. Sovartus is a man
without conscience and possessed of great magical powers. He kills
without compunction and without regret."

"Nonetheless, I am not one to forget a debt, whether incurred by or
owed to me."

"Some things are better forgotten," Vitarius murmured as he continued
to weave his way through the crowd.

Loganaro stood uncomfortably before the tall rostrum and chair of
Senator Lemparius, the most powerful politician in Mornstadinos,
perhaps in all of Corinthia. The short man's discomfort was not made
less by the two senatorial deputies who flanked him, each with a dagger
pointing toward Loganaro's throat.

"There must be some mistake, Honored Senator. I have done nothing to
contravene the laws in the Jewel of Corinthia."

Lemparius laughed, showing very white teeth. "You should have been a
jester, Loganaro. If your crimes were divided equally among the
population of the city, it is likely our dungeons would burst. You
could be condemned a hundred times on what I personally know, thrice
that number if half what I suspect could be proven."

Loganaro swallowed dryly. A vision of himself dangling on the gibbet
made the bones of his legs feel rubbery. This encounter was unexpected,
and it began to look as if he would not survive it. What had he done to
so arouse the Senate Flail? A more important question was: How had he
been discovered doing it?

Lemparius waved his left hand languidly. "Leave us."

The pair of deputies bowed slightly, sheathing their daggers. They spun
on the balls of their feet, and, as one, marched from the chamber.
Loganaro felt the cold beads of sweat rolling down his spine, but he
tried to maintain a calm appearance.

"While I could have you flayed and dipped in boiling salt water, such
is not my intent-at the moment anyway." Lemparius arose from his chair
with fluid grace. He toyed with the handle of a knife ensheathed at his
right hip.

Loganaro stared at the senator's long fingers as he caressed the
weapon; the short rotund man felt as if he were snared in some spell,
for he could not take his gaze from the almost sensual stroking.

Lemparius laughed again. "You admire my steel tooth, eh?" The tall
blond man pulled the knife from its leather holster and raised it to
chest level. The weapon was curved from the butt to the point, like a
bow. It conjured up ugly images: pictures graven of fangs or talons,
set for ripping. The handle was of some dark wood, likely ebony,
close-grained and highly polished. Loganaro could see that the knife
was full-tanged, with brass rivets mating the wood with the steel.
There was a brass cap where the blade proper began, not so much a guard
as a break in color from black to silver. The blade itself was short,
perhaps twice the length of a man's little finger, but tapered along a
wicked steel curve to a needle's tip. The outer side was thick and
serrated for a quarter of its length; the inner curve alone bore the
sharpened edge.

"Have you ever beheld a great saber-toothed cat?" Lemparius queried.
"No? A pity; they are magnificent beasts, though their numbers are
declining. Each of these cats bears a pair of tusklike fangs, shaped
just so"-the senator waved the steel blade back and forth-"so that they
can slay nearly any beast that walks or crawls. I used one of these
ivory wonders as the design for my own steel tooth. It allows me to
feel a certain . . . kinship with the great cats."

Loganaro nodded dumbly.

"Ah, but you wish to see it demonstrated, do you not?"

"M-most Honored Senator, it is not necessary-"

"Certainly it is necessary, Loganaro. Follow me."

Lemparius led the shorter man down a narrow corridor lined with
flickering tapers, then descended a steep flight of stone steps into
the anteroom of what was obviously a dungeon. Loganaro began silently
imploring each god he could remember for his life.

In a filthy cell hardly bigger than a coffin, a disheveled man of
indeterminate age was pent. The man's hair was matted and unruly, his
heard unkempt, and madness lit his wild eyes.

Standing in front of this cell, Lemparius turned to Loganaro and
smiled. "You have a dagger. Give it to me."

Loganaro quickly complied, tendering his fat-bladed weapon to the
senator. The Flail of the Senate then tossed the dagger into the cell
through the slats of rusty iron. The man snatched up the knife in an
instant and lunged at the pair outside his cell, stabbing through the
bars as far as he could reach, but his efforts fell short. The attack
drove Loganaro back in a startled leap. Lemparius moved not a hair.

"This man is condemned to die," the senator said. "For crimes too
boring to enumerate. He has an appointment with the hangman on the
morrow, but I feel that he may well be unable to keep his date with the
gibbetmaster."

With that, Lemparius flicked the tip of his knife at the wrist of the
prisoner. The movement was deceptively easy, Loganaro thought, but of
such a speed that the creature within the cell had no time to move his
arm from the strike. When he did jerk his hand back inside the bars,
blood was already welling from a thumb-length cut upon his wrist. The
man howled wordlessly.

Lemparius then threw the bolt set above the door and opened wide the
entrance to the cell. He took two steps back in Loganaro's direction.
Loganaro himself scrambled backward twice as many paces. Was the
senator mad? The condemned man had nothing to lose by attacking and
killing them both!

The prisoner leaped forth from the cell, grinning like a living
skeleton. He paused for a moment to suck the blood from his wrist, then
spat the collection onto the grimy flagstones under his bare feet. He
howled again, then charged for Lemparius, the short dagger held low to
gut the senator.

In all his travels Loganaro had never seen anyone move quite as the
senator did then. He was preternaturally fast, and he leaped like a cat
at the prisoner. In his right hand Lemparius held the steel saber-tooth
like a sickle. The knife blurred, and struck the condemned man on the
side of the neck. Before the man could react, the knife based on a
predator's tooth was jerked back and swung again, cutting this time
into the opposite side of the already gravely wounded neck. Lemparius
leaped away from his victim.

Loganaro had some experience with observing and even inflicting mortal
wounds, but he had never seen anything like this. The great vessels
carrying blood from the body to the head were cleanly sheared; crimson
gouts pulsed from the arteries with each pump of the man's heart. The
dying man stood for an instant as if he'd grown roots, unable to move.
Then he fell abruptly. In only a few seconds he paled to a ghostly hue
as his blood pumped away. Dead.

Lemparius wiped the blood from his knife with the thumb and forefinger
of his left hand, then cast the gore off with a slinging motion. He
smiled at Loganaro. "Did you know that by reversing the grip on my
beauty thus"-he flipped the knife up, caught it as it twisted, so that
he held the weapon with the handle pointing toward the ceiling and the
point down-"I can effect a strike between a man's legs in much the same
manner as the neck cut? Such a stroke does not kill, but does leave a
man somewhat less . . . of a man."

Loganaro swallowed as if his throat had suddenly been filled with
desert-baked sand.

"You seem quiet, free agent. Lost your tongue?"

Loganaro licked lips as dry as bleached bones. "Wh-what would you have
of me, Honored Senator?"

Lemparius sheathed his knife and laid an arm around the shoulders of
the other man. "You are in the employ of Djuvula the Witch. Did you
know she has a brother who is a demon'? Ah, no matter. Currently, you
shadow a barbarian called Conan. Yes, that is the name. Our witch
wishes this man's heart to enliven the simulacrum she has designed."

"H-h-how can you know this?"

"I am not without my ways. Suffice it that I do know. I, too, have an
interest in this barbarian. When the time comes, I would greatly
appreciate your aid in capturing this man for my own." Lemparius smiled
widely.

"I-I cannot." Loganaro's voice was barely a whisper.

"Your pardon, friend Loganaro, for my bad hearing. I thought for a
moment I heard you say that you would not help me in this matter."

"Honored Senator, Djuvula would have my head mounted on a pole in the
pit of her outhouse!"

"Dear little man, what I will do should you refuse my simple request
would make you beg for such a fate. I shall protect you from Djuvula's
wrath, you may be assured."

Loganaro swallowed again. "Might I know why you wish this thing?"

"I see no harm in such, now that you are in my employ. Djuvula, as you
may know, no longer takes lovers from among men. I would have her take
one more before she animates her simulacrum."

"You, Honored Senator? But-but I thought . . ." Loganaro's speech
dribbled away as he realized what he had been about to say.

Lemparius laughed, apparently undisturbed. He finished Loganaro's
thought for him. "You thought that I had already partaken of that
dubious honor, and, like all the others, had been found wanting?"

"Your pardon, Senator-"

"Nay, you would be correct in your assumption. That was the case;
however, this was some time ago. I have since become imbued with
certain vigors of, shall we say, an animal-like power. With this new
energy I feel certain my-ah-performance in that arena in which Djuvula
so rightly claims mastery will be vastly improved."

"But if this is so, why not merely tell her this?"

"You have little understanding of women, it would seem. She has set her
mind and it will not be changed without a great deal of determined
effort. If I cannot instill belief beforehand, I shall have to have
something with which to bargain. If I should hold this barbarian, I
could extract a price for him. Should I fail in my ministrations, then
Djuvula will have her simulacrum. I must confess, I foresee this as
unlikely; still, it is the kind of bargain that should appeal to her;
after all she cannot lose either way."

"I see. And you shall then assume a position in which you can protect
any of your agents who might have caused her distemper in this matter?"

"Of course."

Loganaro considered his options. In truth, he saw no other choice than
to agree with the senator's wishes. If Lemparius's plan somehow failed,
likely as not Djuvula would seek revenge upon the man who betrayed her;
on the other hand, if he refused the senator, he was a dead man for
certain. Better to risk the unhealthy future than the unhealthy
present.

"Naturally, since you have explained your reasons, I could do nothing
less than offer my services wholly to you, Honored Senator."

"I thought you might come to see it that way, Loganaro. My instructions
are simple: Go back to your dogging of the barbarian. Say nothing of
this to Djuvula, but rather continue your communication with her. When
she orders the taking of this man Conan, you will inform me and receive
my instructions."

"As you wish, Honored Senator."

"You must address me as Lemparius henceforth, free agent. After all,
you are now a respected employee, one who will be paid well for his
services."

After Loganaro had gone, Lemparius went back to the body of the slain
man and stared thoughtfully at it. He smiled. Djuvula would certainly
forgive him, could he make good his boast of renewed vitality; it was
unlikely that she would ever forgive Loganaro his devious switch in
alliance. Too bad; the little weasel was very adept at spying and other
criminal activities. He could be useful if he did not have to die to
satisfy the witch's anger. Better him than me, Lemparius thought.

The senator stared at the body on the floor and felt a rumble in his
belly. Well. There was no point in wasting such fresh meat.

There was no one to see the thing that Senator Lemparius became then,
nor what he did. The guards would have less to toss upon the offal pile
than the gibbetmaster's work would have left, though. And the panther
would sleep with a full belly this night.

The evening shadows played across the thinning crowds as Conan watched
Vitarius perform his conjures for the winemaker's party. The old man
was good, Conan noted. He pulled live birds from a lady's dress,
changed a glass of wine into vinegar, made an empty bottle spew ribbons
of bright silk. Eldia ran about, collecting coins from the laughing
crowd, stopping now and then to perform a trick of her own with her
sword. She would slice a single button from a tunic, carve a loaf of
bread into fancy shapes, even hold the blade in her hands and leap back
and forth over it. It was a good show, and the coppers collected
rapidly in the cup that Eldia rattled at the gathering.

Conan had little to do save watch. No cutpurses stalked the duo, though
several pickpockets moved here and there. As long as they did not
bother his charges, Conan bore them no malice. Being a thief made him
tolerant of such things; after all, a man had to eat, and these folks
would not miss a few lifted coins.

As with most street magicians, Vitarius seemed to be saving his best
illusions for last. He had better hurry to finish, Conan thought,
before everyone went home, taking their money with them.

A hush fell upon the people watching Vitarius as he drew himself up and
began preparing for his final trick. Some of the crowd smiled and
nodded. Conan heard a woman near him say, "His last one is the best;
wait until you see it."

The old man gestured this way and that, mumbled incantations, and
hopped about from foot to foot in a kind of dance. The watchers
laughed, and Conan smiled with them.

Finally, Vitarius was ready. He motioned for the people around him to
move back, and with a final dramatic wave of his arms, Vitarius said,
"Now!"

There was a flash of bright light, and a cloud of dense white smoke
filled the space; as the smoke began to thin, Conan discerned an
enshrouded figure within. A large, dark form loomed ominously.

The crowd gasped as one voice as the smoke disappeared-to reveal a
demon! The thing stood half again as tall as a big man, and Conan
judged that, were it real, it would scale twice his own
not-inconsiderable weight. The demon was bright red, massively male,
and his grin showed teeth from a nightmare. Conan felt a chill frost
his shoulders. Vitarius's other illusions were as nothing compared to
this; the Cimmerian was impressed. When he glanced at Eldia, who stood
an armspan away from him, Conan felt a jolt as she tore her gaze away
from the demon to look at Conan. For the girl said quietly but quite
clearly, "He did not bring it, Conan. It is real!"

The demon took a step toward Vitarius. He spoke then in a voice
reminiscent of metal tearing. "Where is she, White One?"

When Vitarius made no answer, the demon scanned the crowd with eyes
that glowed with infernal light. His sweeping gaze alighted upon Eldia,
and he grinned widely. Dripping slime, the demon turned away from the
conjurer and started toward the girl.

Eldia drew her sword and faced the monster.

The crowd, sensing malpractice in the apparition, began to scatter as
leaves before a storm.

"Hold!" Conan yelled.

The demon glanced down at Conan. "Bespeak you to me, gnat?"

"Aye, demon. But rather this gnat is a wasp, with a stinger." Conan
jerked his broadsword free and gripped it easily in both hands, to
point at the demon's belly.

"I have no quarrel with you, wasp," the demon grated. "My business
concerns this female human child and is none of your concern."

"Wrong, hellspawn. She stands under my protection; menace her at your
peril."

"My peril? You are amusing, wasp, but I grow weary of you. Fly away and
avoid being crushed."

Conan raised the broadsword and sighted along the edge at the demon's
malefic face. "Conan of Cimmeria does not fly from the likes of you,
beast."

"Then pray to your gods, insect, for your time is come."

The demon extended his black-taloned hands toward Conan, and the sound
of his giant muscles cracking rent the air as he crouched and sprang.


Chapter Five

As fast as the demon was. Conan was faster. The Cimmerian leaped, as
did the blood-red pit-spawn, but to the side; the demon's initial rush
bypassed the man. Tortuous veins stood out on Conan's brawny arms as he
swung the sword, aiming for the demon's neck. The force of Conan's
strike sheared the air, moving so fast, the blade cried out a note
somewhere between a moan and a whistle.

The demon, however, did not stand idle, awaiting decapitation; instead,
he leaped high into the air and tucked his massive body into a tight
ball, performing a somersault as neatly as an acrobat might. Before
Conan could recover to bring the blade back for the return stroke, the
demon regained his feet and danced lithely away.

"Where is your stinger, wasp?" The demon laughed in his grating way.

Conan gave no answer, but instead rushed forward, mighty legs pumping
and his sword held ready for another slash.

The demon backstepped quickly, knocking a fruit vendor's stall askew as
if it were no more than cobwebs. He might be laughing, but he moved
readily enough from the cold steel Conan bore.

From the corner of one eye Conan saw Eldia dart forward with her blade
upraised, only to be stopped by the hand of Vitarius. "Not that way!"
the old conjurer yelled.

There was no time for a lack of attention, Conan knew. The demon might
fear steel, but he was big, strong, and hellishly fast; his claws would
gut a man as easily as a handful of daggers would, and Conan had no
intention of allowing the inhuman creature to lay those talons on his
own hide. The Cimmerian whipped his sword back and forth, creating a
deadly fan that sought the red flesh before him. The thing kept moving
backward through the ruins of the fruit stall, and Conan followed,
concentrating fully upon the fiend.

That concentration was a mistake. Conan stepped upon a crushed section
of some greasy fruit and his leading foot shot out from under him. He
lost balance and nearly fell. Only his quickness saved him then, for
the demon reacted far faster than most men could have, lunging at his
attacker with his giant right hand, the talons set to rend Conan's
throat.

Even as he fell to one knee, Conan snapped his blade up in a short arc,
releasing his grip with one hand to keep what balance he could.
Man-made steel met inhuman flesh and black bone, and . . . the ancient
broadsword cleaved through the demon's wrist. A hellish right hand fell
to the ground, smoking and dripping acidic ichor as it did so. The
fingers of the severed extremity spasmed and relaxed several times, as
if still somehow connected to the demonic muscles that previously
controlled it.

The demon roared, a terrible noise that shattered nearby wine bottles
and blew all other sounds from Conan's ears. As Conan sought to regain
his own stance the maddened creature seemed to explode into motion: The
now-handless arm swung at Conan, splattering the man with gore as the
stump brushed aside the upraised sword, knocking the weapon from
Conan's grasp. The barbarian managed to dive into a roll away from the
demon's onslaught, and he came up with his own powerful arms
widespread, ready to grapple with the one-handed attacker. Conan felt
the foul breath of doom in his face; he knew he was no match for the
demon with his bare hands, but he did not back away. By Crom, he would
meet his end head-on and fighting!

As the demon gathered himself for his final lunge at Conan, a stream of
blue fire suddenly splashed over his back and shoulders, blending with
his red skin to form a purple haze. The child of the pit roared again,
but the supernal glow only increased around him, sending ragged trails
of smoke skyward as his skin began to char. Conan twisted to see the
source of this blue fire, and beheld Vitarius, one hand extended toward
the demon, the other laid upon the bare head of Eldia, who also glowed
with essence of blue flame.

"No!" the tortured monster screamed. There came an eye-smiting flash of
yellow and a danker shade of purple, and the demon vanished as abruptly
as he had come.

Left behind was the demon's right hand, which twitched fitfully upon
the cobblestones near Conan, as if still trying to reach the one
responsible for its destruction.

Vitarius came to stand next to Conan, to stare down at the demon's
hand. For a time neither man spoke. It fell to Conan, finally, to break
the silence. "I think your explanation about being a simple conjurer is
somewhat flawed, Vitarius. No small spell called that thing, nor did
any illusion drive it away."

"True enough," the old man answered, looking tired. "An explanation is
owed you, and I shall provide it. Were it not for you, Eldia would have
been taken by Sovartus's enthralled one and the consequences of that do
not bear contemplation."

"I await your tale."

"Aye, you shall have it. As you have surmised, Eldia and I are not
precisely what we pretended upon our meeting in the Milk of Wolves inn.
I-" The old man stopped and jerked his head around. Save for Conan and
himself, the road and stalls were empty. "Eldia! She is gone!"

Conan spun in a quick circle, looking for the girl. She was not to be
seen. "The demon-" he began.

"No. He left alone! We must find her, Conan! If she is taken to
Sovartus, she is doomed, as likely are many more. I swear to explain
all this fully, but we must first retrieve the girl. You must trust
me."

After the briefest of pauses, Conan nodded. He had no reason to believe
Vitarius, since it was obvious the man had lied to him before: still,
Conan was a man of action and so trusted his instincts more than his
reason. No evil stench lurked about Vitarius and Eldia, and the demon
would likely have killed him without their help. Conan retrieved his
sword and waved it to point down the street. "I will take this
direction; you go that way."

Vitarius nodded, and Conan loped off. He glanced back to see the old
man pause long enough to collect the demon's hand and drop it into his
belt pouch.

The bedchamber of Djuvula the Witch exploded into a cloud of bruised
purple and yellow, leaving Djavul amid the smoke, clutching at the
stump of his right arm with his remaining hand. The door to the chamber
opened and the witch rushed in, alarmed by the sudden intrusion into
her sanctum. "Demon-brother! What has happened?"

Djavul cursed with the power of Hell in his words. On the witch's bed
the dark form of the unanimated simulacrum tossed from the force of
those curses. Then the wounded demon said, "My hand!"

Djuvula seemed to relax somewhat. "Brother mine, why fret over such a
thing? Another will grow to replace it-"

"Fool woman! It is not the hand, but the way in which it was lost! I am
bound to Sovartus, a Mage of the Black Square-"

Djuvula sucked in a quick breath, startled.

"So, you know of this one," Djavul said, staring at his sister.

"Aye. A man of no small power, he."

"As I am in his thrall, I am well aware of that, flesh of my damned
father. And I have failed in my attempt to do his bidding. That which I
sought was guarded by a man of supernatural abilities. Instead of my
taking his charge, he took my hand!"

"What would you have me do, brother-mine?"

"I must return to report my . . . difficulty to Sovartus. He will not
be pleased. It would behoove me to be able to indicate I have some
assistance forthcoming, perhaps even another plan for obtaining that
which he seeks."

"We are blood-tied," Djuvula said, "and naturally I will aid you as I
can."

"Good. Sovartus wishes to collect a girl-child known as Eldia-she is
one of the Four, as you will know when you behold her. He already has
the other Three. This one travels in the company of one of the White
Magicians, possibly of the White Square, though I could not be certain.
And there is a large man of origin unknown to me with them. 'Twas he
who cost me this." Djavul waved the handless stump. Already the wound
had sealed itself into a smooth black glasslike stub.

Djuvula nodded, but the implications of what her demon brother had just
spoken were not lost upon her. If Sovartus managed to hold sway over
all of the Four children imbued with the power of the Four Ways, he
would be the paramount force in magic upon Earth. If she could somehow
strike a bargain with Sovartus for delivery of the remaining portion of
his magical spell-this girl, Eldia-she could bask in some of his
thus-earned power. And the man who separated Djavul from his hand,
well, he sounded very much like a candidate for a spell of her own. She
looked at the somnambulant form of her simulacrum, her Prince of the
Lance.

She considered these things in a few heartbeats and then smiled at
Djavul. "I will help you capture this child," she said. "Tell me, where
did you leave her?"

Loganaro crouched under the cover of a fallen awning and watched the
muscular barbarian run down the nearly empty street. The agent had
arrived in the vicinity just in time to see the finish of Vitarius's
performance. More than ever, Loganaro was convinced that Conan was the
man for animating Djuvula's dream-lover. Certainly, this barbarian from
far Cimmeria would be worth admittance to the witch's bed, if Senator
Lemparius held him. Capturing him might be less than easily
accomplished, however. It could be an expensive undertaking, Loganaro
thought, and some of the coin needed would certainly find its way to
his pouch.

The barbarian was too fast for him to follow, especially without cover
to shield him from a casual backward glance, so Loganaro decided to
append himself to the old magician instead. He felt certain that Conan
would return to the white-haired one before long.

The sound of Conan's boots was loud upon the rough cobblestones of the
street. It was growing darker as evening stole upon the scene, casting
her nightly net. Conan's sharp blue eyes sent his penetrating gaze down
each alley he passed, covering such passages from top to bottom with a
single glance. Eldia was not to be seen.

As he ran past yet another of the building-bounded paths filled with
the detritus of city life, Conan blinked and skidded to a halt. He
raked the alley with a second look. Nothing moved in that dark
rectangle; of that he was certain. Here stood a mound of trash-rags,
scraps of animal skins, broken pottery-there, a stack of firewood. He
beheld an alley like a dozen others he had passed in his run, and yet
something within struck him as different. Some small thing intruded
upon his senses, untouchable and yet somehow wrong.

There! A tiny flash of whiteness against the dark backdrop of the
woodpile! Instantly, Conan knew it for the eye of a man, reflecting the
now-risen moon's soft glow. He drew his sword and moved into the alley,
the point of the heavy blade held aimed at the darkness-hidden bearer
of the eyes he had seen.

As the barbarian's own sharp vision adjusted to the greater darkness of
the alley, he made out a form squatting next to a pile of split
kindling. The form arose and there shone the glint of moonlight upon
steel as a short blade came up to point at Conan.

"Wait!" came a girlish voice. Eldia. "It is Conan, a friend. "

The form grew yet clearer in Conan's sight: a woman, her body nearly
covering that of Eldia, standing behind her. The woman held her knife-a
wavy-bladed dagger-aimed at the approaching man.

"Eldia, come forth into the light," Conan called.

"No," a woman's voice replied. This voice had the sound of honey upon
steel, smooth and yet backed by hardness.

Conan stood motionless for a moment, then decided there was no danger
here for him. He sheathed his blade and held his hands out to show
their emptiness.

The woman took a step forward and the pale moonlight caressed her
gently. She was perhaps eighteen, Conan judged, with jet-black hair
that hung unbound to her waist. Her form was covered by a silken shirt
and thin leather breeches, and upon her feet she wore thonged sandals
of a fine cut. The body covered by these items was of a cut much finer
than the sandals. The woman was lush of hip and leg, and beneath the
thin blue silk of her shirt her breasts were full and heavy. There was
something about her face, which was in itself flawlessly detailed, that
seemed familiar to Conan. He knew he would hardly forget such a lovely
woman had he seen her before, yet he was certain he knew that face . .
. .

Eldia moved into view, and Conan knew where he had seen the
raven-haired beauty before: she was Eldia grown up into full womanhood.
The woman was too young to be Eldia's mother, so she must be-

"You are her sister," Conan said, voicing his thought as it came to
him.

"Aye," the woman said. "And come to reclaim her from the villains who
took her from our home."

Conan shrugged, his massive shoulders rising easily as he found it
within himself to grin at the woman. "I took no one anywhere," he said.
"And it seems to me Eldia travels with Vitarius of her own accord."

The woman glanced toward the mouth of the alley, then back at Conan.
She raised the dagger a bit higher, clutching it tightly. Conan could
see her knuckles whiten upon the haft of the weapon. "She was dragged
screaming into the night," the woman said. "My father was slain, as was
my mother. Before my mother died, she told me that Eldia was special,
that she had brothers and a sister-my half-brothers and sister-of whom
she had never told us. That whatever I did, I must find Eldia and hide
her from those evil ones who desire her for their own wicked purposes."

Conan glanced at Eldia, who seemed content to allow her sister to
speak. "And is Vitarius one of those evil ones?"

Eldia shook her head. "N-no, but-"

"It is all right, Eldia," her sister said. "You do not have to explain
anything to this-this-barbarian."

"Someone is going to have to explain it," Conan said evenly. "I am
tired of being made the fool in whatever games Vitarius and you two
have mounted. We shall go back to this 'conjurer' and hear this tale
outlined in its fullness."

"No," the woman said. "We are going home!"

"After I am satisfied with explanations of why I was attacked by a
demon in a public square," Conan said, the anger rising in his voice.

"Now," Eldia's sister said, pushing the knife toward Conan. "Now, or
I'll spit you and leave your carcass for the rats."

Without another sound Conan leaped at the woman. He caught her wrist as
she tried to impale his throat upon her blade; he twisted the woman's
arm hard, and she exclaimed and dropped the dagger.

Suddenly, the alley seemed to come to life. Small bodies slithered over
the trash and woodpile; the scratchings of hundreds of tiny feet could
be heard along with the gentle rasp of small forms moving everywhere.
Conan saw that the very walls and ground seemed to undulate in small
waves.

"Crom!" He released the woman and moved back a pace, drawing his sword
in a fluid and well-practiced move. But there was no single enemy to be
faced here. Something touched Conan's boot, and he turned his fiery
blue eyes downward to stare at the thing.

It was a salamander. The creature was no longer than Conan's middle
finger, but it mounted his footgear with a kind of determination Conan
found hard to credit. Such lizardlike things usually ran at the sight
of men, but to judge from the sound, there must be hundreds of the
things here in this alley. How had they gotten here? Why were they
advancing upon him'?

"Hold!" Eldia said. The rustle of tiny feet stopped instantly. The
single salamander upon Conan's boot froze as if transmuted into stone.

Eldia looked at her sister. "He saved my life on two occasions," she
said. "And Vitarius means only to help me. We must allow him to have
his explanation." She nodded toward Conan. "And you must hear what
Vitarius has to say, sister, before we can go home. I was frightened by
the demon earlier, otherwise I would have had you stay then."

Eldia looked at the salamander on Conan's boot. "Away," she said.

Obediently, the creature turned and wiggled away. Around them the
sounds of other scurryings touched the night air; in a moment all was
quiet again.

Conan stared at Eldia.

"Shall we go?" she said.

Conan and Eldia's sister looked at each other, and nodded. But Conan
was not pleased with any of this. Not at all.

"Fool!" Sovartus screamed. "To be thwarted by an ordinary man!"

Djavul stood within the bounds of the black magician's pentagram, drawn
up to his fullest height. "Nay, human mage, this was no ordinary man.
In a thousand years I have faced hundreds of men in mortal combat.
Their bones lie moldering in graves the world over. Never have I lost a
death fight to any man. This man was more than most; more, he had
magical help, else I would have triumphed over him despite his strength
and skill. You face one of the White. Sovartus. "

"Vitarius!" Sovartus's voice was filled with anger.

"I know not his name, but he focused the power of Fire upon me, and the
heat was not that which I could withstand."

"Damn you!"

"You are too late, magician. But all is not lost. I am brother to a
human witch who has no small influence in the city that hides your
quarry. You will have your child; I will have the man who did this."
Djavul raised his right arm and stared at the stump where his hand had
been.

In the far depths of Castle Slott something screamed in hideous
anticipation.


Chapter Six

The patrons in the Milk of Wolves Inn gave the four people seated at
the table nearest the fireplace a wide berth. Conan suspected that
some, if not all, of the people pretending to look everywhere else save
at him and his companions had been present at the conjuring exhibition
earlier. The Cimmerian did not blame them for being nervous; he himself
felt no joy in the presence of those steeped in magic. The lethal flame
in Conan's eyes burned low, but burn it did, as he listened to
Vitarius's tale.

". . . Eldia was one of four children. Her mother, your mother, as
well"-Vitarius pointed with his nose at the young woman seated across
from Conan-"was ensorcelled by a powerful magician during her
conception by him."

"You are saying I have a father other than the one I have known all my
life?" Eldia's gaze was sharp and much harder than that usually seen in
a child of her age.

"Aye. At your birth your mother was allowed to retain only one of her
brood. Your father was Hogistum of the Gray Square, and he took the
others and had them scattered across the world."

"Why?" Conan. Eldia, and the woman-Kinna, she called herself-all spoke
at the same instant.

Vitarius sighed and shook his head. "It cannot be understood so easily.
Hogistum uncovered some ancient sorcery, weathered runes that came from
a more primal time. He managed to decipher these writings and so
learned how to link each of the Four Elements to a living soul. He was
not an evil man, Hogistum, but he was curious. Of the Gray, he could
work magic for black purposes or white, and usually, he tended toward
the White. The Spell of Linkage was, in itself, neither good nor evil;
it depended upon how it was used, once invoked. Hogistum had no
intention of using it; he wished only to see if he could accomplish it.
At least this was what he claimed."

"How do you know this?" Kinna's voice was no less silken than Conan had
noted before.

The old man hesitated for a moment, pausing to wet his lips with the
wine cup in front of him on the rough table. "Hogistum had two
students," he began. "One was his natural son, the other a pupil who
had demonstrated magical aptitude but was of a low caste." Vitarius
looked at each of the three faces in turn. "I was the low-caste pupil."

Conan nodded. No surprise there. Vitarius's attack upon the demon was
explained, then.

Vitarius continued. "Since his own wife had died, Hogistum chose a
young woman of his household, daughter of an old retainer, for his new
bride. Upon this girl Hogistum worked his spell even as they lay
together on the nuptial bed."

"How . . . vile!" Kinna said.

"I can see how you would think it so," Vitarius said. "In time, the
birthing of four children occurred. Each of these babes was filled with
power."

"I find this all hard to believe," Kinna said.

The old magician blinked like some ancient owl at the young woman. "Do
you? In your life with your sister, have you not noticed certain . . .
abilities in her? Can anyone be cold in her presence? Is not her bed
always warm, even on the coldest winter nights? And, of course, there
are the salamanders."

The fire in Conan's eyes leaped a bit at this last statement. Aye, the
girl had some truck with such creatures. Conan looked at Kinna, and saw
that she nodded in spite of her obvious reluctance to believe what she
was hearing.

"Eldia is one corner of the Square," Vitarius said. "She is the Child
of Fire, flameweaver and Mistress of its beasts, the salamanders. Her
sister, Atena, is the Child of Water, and through her the undines
serve; her brothers are Luft, Child of Air and the wind-devils, and
Jord, Child of Earth, Master of the demi-whelves and trolls. I did not
make it so, but I speak it as it is."

Something had been gnawing ratlike at Conan's mind, something Vitarius
had said earlier. The young man voiced it. "You spoke of another
student, the natural son of Hogistum. Who is he? What has happened to
him?"

Vitarius nodded as if expecting the question. "We speak of one you have
had contact with, albeit indirectly. He owes you a horse."

"Sovartus?"

"Aye. He poisoned his own father and has spent the years since tracing
and recovering the children Hogistum so carefully hid. He now has them
all save Eldia."

"Hogistum was less than careful, it would seem." Conan toyed with his
own cup of wine. "He is dead and his son's goal nearly accomplished."

"Aye. I managed to thwart him by taking Eldia from her captors before
she could be tendered to him. I was too late for the others. Through
them, he now influences three of the Square's Four Corners: Earth, Air,
and Water. If he should complete the Square, he would have at his
bidding a beast greater than the sum of the parts, a synergistic force
Hogistum called the Thing of Power. This would be such a monstrous
happening that even the gods would turn their faces away from it."

Conan shifted upon the bench, suddenly uncomfortable. Talk of magic
always made him feel thus; such things as this men should leave alone.

Kinna leaned across the table, one more-than-ample breast brushing
against the back of Conan's hand as she moved. "What are your
intentions, then, Vitarius?"

The old magician sighed again. "I must protect Eldia, keeping her from
Sovartus's clutches; more, I must somehow find a way to free the three
children he holds."

"Can you do it?" Eldia said quietly. "Can you save my brothers and
sister from my-my . . . half-brother?"

Vitarius shook his head. "I do not know. He is of the Black, and so
wields powers I cannot; too, he commands the forces of Three Corners
and I only One. I fear he is stronger than I. Sovartus, so it is said,
even dares to practice base necromancy in his sorcery, calling upon the
legions of the dead for certain spells. All I can do is try. I can do
no more, and I will do no less."

Kinna leaned back and nodded. "Very well. I shall help you in any way I
can. As long as Sovartus lives, Eldia is endangered. We must destroy
him." Kinna looked at Conan. "What about you?"

Conan crossed his thick arms upon his chest and stared at the woman.
She was beautiful, but he wished no part of this.

"I travel to Nemedia," he said. "And I paused only long enough to earn
an easier passage. I have been misled. I am not fond of liars,
especially those who risk my neck without warning me, and I have less
liking for practitioners of magic. I wish you well in your undertaking,
but I am no longer a part of it."

Kinna glared at Conan, but Eldia only nodded, as did Vitarius. The mage
said, "I cannot blame you, Conan, You have behaved bravely and we
returned falsehood for it. We thank you for your help and wish you well
in your journey."

Conan nodded and started to rise.

"But stay a moment," Vitarius said. "We owe you something for your
trouble. There is the silver for this day's work, and a few coins
besides, well-earned. And since I have held two rooms for this
evening's rest, you are welcome to one of them, in further gratitude."

Conan took the coins, transferring them to his own pouch. "Aye, I'll
use the room this night, deservedly."

The young Cimmerian turned and walked toward the doorway leading to the
stairs and the lodging above the inn. The day had been long and he was
tired.

The room was somewhat better appointed than the last in which Conan had
slept, but not by much. A pallet stuffed with straw lay upon a
much-worn and ratty carpet; a shuttered window could be opened out so
that the room's occupants could behold the maze of streets three
flights below. A nub of a taper burned in one corner of the room,
sending the remains of smoky tallow toward the dark ceiling, but little
light into the rest of the darkness. At least there were no rats buried
within his bed, Conan noted. He pinched the candle wick and
extinguished the small flame, then sprawled upon the pallet, his sword
nearby. Sleep fell upon him like a cloak.

Like a cloak jerked away, sleep left the prone form of Conan a scant
two hours later. The blue eyes flashed out a gaze that swept the dark
room, but there was nothing to be seen, for the blackness was too thick
even for the Cimmerian's sharp vision. He held his breath so that his
hearing would work yet better, but the only sound was that of a small
wind playing around the edges of the shuttered window and the creaks of
the aging wood of the inn. And his own heartbeat sounded in his ears.
No danger was apparent, yet Conan trusted his instincts too well to
ignore his wakefulness at this hour. He reached for his sword, feeling
better once the stained leather handle was in his grasp.

Perhaps it was only the wind after all, he thought as he lay there.
When nothing else moved for a long time, Conan again slept, his hand
still locked upon the hilt of his sword.

The darkness in Castle Slott was complete save for a musty yellow glow
cast in a single room by a single lamp. Revealed in the fitful light
stood Sovartus, his thin-fingered hands digging cruelly into the
shoulders of one of three children chained to the damp and moldy wall.
Presently, a faint glow began to surround the bodies of the magician
and his captive. At first the glow merely shimmered dimly; after a
short while, however, the gleam of pale yellow light began to rival
that of the lamp on the wall. In a few moments the boy and magician
produced a source of illumination too bright to gaze upon without
squinting. As Sovartus felt the boy's energies suffuse him, the
magician laughed. Yes!

Wrapped in the folds of darkness outside of the Milk of Wolves Inn,
Djuvula the Witch felt the wind tug at the edges of her black silk
veil, stirring the cloth gently. She had determined that the child she
sought was ensconced within, along with him of the White Square who was
her protector. All it had cost her was money; a few silver coins spread
around could oft work more miracles among men than could magic. Aside
from the girl, Djuvula also sought some sign of the barbarian who had
injured her demon-brother. Surely such a one must be a man with a
powerful spirit. And a powerful heart.

The rising wind also tangled itself about the short form of Loganaro,
hiding in the lee of an outhouse close to the inn in which Conan the
Cimmerian slept. Loganaro impatiently awaited the arrival of the six
cutthroats he had hired, paid for with gold from Senator Lemparius's
bountiful purse. Surely the big youth could be taken by six men, no
matter that some of them might be lost in the process. Such had been
Lemparius's decision when Loganaro had reported that Conan had seemed
upon the verge of departing the company of the old man, girl, and newly
arrived woman. It had been hastily arranged; Loganaro would have
preferred a longer time to select his crew, but one worked with what
one was given. His major worry concerned not the taking of Conan, but
the displeasure of Djuvula when she learned of his switch in
allegiance, no matter he had little choice in the matter. This above
all played upon his fears, and he wondered where Djuvula might be at
the moment. And where those dimwitted cutthroats dallied.

On a dark street overshadowed by cluttered buildings and unkissed by
the light of moon or man, a tawny shape walked. Dogs barked fearfully
at the passage of the shape, perhaps startled by the scent of what was
far too huge to be any street cat, though cat it surely was. Within the
mind of the werepanther a laugh was formed, but when it erupted from
between sharp white fangs, the laugh was something else entirely. The
dogs of Mornstadinos went silent at the sound, as if they were afraid
to draw the attention of the thing by further outcry.

The dogs need not have worried; the cat-which-was-also-a-man stalked a
different prey than dogs: He had grown fond of the taste of a
two-legged animal. The city was full of such. Six of those particular
animals passed the cat in the darkness, blind to his presence. The
werepanther allowed these six to move by unmolested, for beneath the
feline brain the mind of the man knew they were about on his business.
And such business would bring him a different kind of pleasure than
eating.

The normally peaceful slumber of Conan of Cimmeria was disturbed this
night, and the powerful form of the barbarian turned restlessly upon
the pallet of straw upon which he lay. He came to wakefulness once
again, but once more could identify no threat to him. A dream. he
thought, must have infiltrated his sleep. As he fell back asleep the
second time that night, only the sound of the night wind came to his
ears. Outside, it sounded as if a storm were rising.


Chapter Seven

The wind howled through the streets of Mornstadinos, searching out
every hollow that could announce its passage. Gusts of damp air rattled
loose objects and sent trash flying before it. The rain, when it came,
exploded upon the cobblestones in fat drops, immediately drenching
anything or anyone unprotected from the storm. Lightning turned the
night into day in a series of instants; thunder followed in the
darkness, booming like the angry grumbles of some irritated god. The
storm, undetected by the bone aches of the weather-sayers, unleashed
its torrents upon the city with a rare tropical fury usually unknown to
the region.

"Mitra curse this rain!" said one of the cutthroats standing in the
scant shelter of a roof overhang across the street from the Milk of
Wolves Inn. Three or four of his companions echoed his comment before
Loganaro silenced them with a withering glare.

"Are you cakes of spice who will dissolve under a little rain?"
Loganaro said.

"Nay," the cutthroat answered, "but this be no small shower,
pursemaster. The rats'll be drowning this night."

"Concern yourself not with rats," Loganaro said. "You are not paid to
worry over them, but to fetch me the man who lies sleeping yonder."
Loganaro pointed toward the inn.

The cutthroat, a swarthy man of Zamorian ancestry with a patch of
leather covering one sightless eye, nodded. "Aye, that be true," Patch
said. "But my mates and me would have words wi' ye regarding our . . .
arrangement." The man spoke in a heavy foreign accent laced with a
polyglot patois.

Loganaro regarded the man. "Words? What words?"

"There be a story that this 'un you wants be the same man who played
sword against the red monster some seen in the square during the
winemaker's party."

"And what if he is? Do the six of you fear one man?"

"Nay, man, not fear; respect it be. They say this 'un be devil quick
and strong as a bear to boot. If these things be true, my mates and me
figures it be likely this 'un won't go easy. So maybe there ought to be
a bit more grease."

Loganaro ground his teeth together. "How much more?"

Patch grinned, showing his own crooked yellow teeth. "Ah, a gold piece
each would sit well."

"No doubt it would. We have an agreement for twelve gold solons for the
job."

"That be before. Now we figure eighteen."

"Impossible. I might manage another two silver pieces each."

Patch shrugged. "The rain be cold; just as well we're shut of it."
Patch started to turn away.

"Two gold coins more," Loganaro said, angry with the man.

"Five," Patch returned.

Loganaro thought of the man he had seen slain in the dungeon under the
Senate, and swallowed. A hard gust of wind blew rain against his back;
cold water trickled down under his collar and along his neck. He
thought about trying to bargain further, hating to lose more of his
money to this thug, but decided against it. All the gold in Corinthia
would be worthless were he not around to gloat over it. He took a deep
breath. "Done. Five solons more. When you deliver the barbarian."

Patch showed his crooked teeth again. "Aye."

The fury of the storm seemed to wane for a moment. Loganaro waved
toward the inn. "Do it, then. Now."

The six men darted from under the overhang and ran toward the inn,
splashing through puddles already as big as small ponds.

Djuvula hurried toward her manse, cursing the rain. She hated to leave
the surveillance she had undertaken upon the inn, but she could not
abide the rain. There was no chance the old man and girl would be going
anywhere in this night, in any event. She could return on the morrow.

The panther snarled, but the sound was lost in a giant's drumbeat of
thunder. His fur was rain-matted, and the cat was not happy. Such
weather kept his prey indoors and well-shuttered against intrusion.
Those unable to afford inns or houses were more difficult to locate,
since the torrential rain washed much of their scent from the air.
Prowling under the downpour was a muddy business and less than
enjoyable.

The panther turned away from his hunt and scurried toward one of many
places especially prepared for his night roamings. This one was no more
than a shed for storage of wool, but it offered shelter and a hidden
cache of clothing suitable for a senator wishing to be incognito.

In the privacy of the shed, that which was a cat growled as it began to
stretch joints and ligaments unnaturally, altering itself from a beast
that walked on four legs to one of those who, moments earlier, had been
its prey.

Conan had no fear of storms, but once again he lay awake, gripping his
sword tightly. This time a sound in the corridor outside his room was
apparent even over the tempest raging outside the inn. A soft footstep
upon a loose board.

The barbarian came lightly to his feet and moved quickly toward the
door. He threw the simple latch up, jerked the door open, and, in a
single bound, leaped into the hall, sword held ready to strike.

Conan found himself facing a single figure wrapped in a thin blanket.
Kinna.

Conan lowered the sword, staring at the young woman. The blanket she
wore covered much of her, but allowed most of her long legs freedom in
the night air. Most shapely legs, Conan saw, with an underlying muscle
he found instantly attractive.

Kinna seemed to note Conan's interest and tried to move the blanket to
cover her limbs; this action allowed more of her upper body an air
bath, however, including a glimpse of her full breasts before she
hurriedly recovered them.

Conan grinned. "Why are you about at this hour?"

"I-I heard a noise at my window. A strange sound."

"We are three floors from the ground," Conan said. "It is less than
likely anything could be playing at your shutters. The wind, no doubt."

Kinna nodded, sending a ripple through her long black hair. "So I
thought. Once awake, I could not find sleep again. So I came out here
to . . ." She trailed off and looked embarrassed.

"To what?" Conan asked, curious.

Kinna glanced down the hallway toward the night chamber, colored
briefly, but spoke not.

Conan followed her gaze, then understood. Ah, women. To be embarrassed
by such a thing as a visit to the night chamber was a thing he had
never understood. Everyone had the same natural need; why should it
bother anyone?

The silence between them grew, stretching to awkwardness. Conan felt no
need to fill the quiet with words; still, he was awake and fully alert.
So he said, "This noise did not disturb your sister or Vitarius?"

"No. She sleeps the sleep of the innocent, and he rests as though
practicing for his Final Slumber."

"Ah. Since I am up, perhaps you would like me to examine your window
for the source of this noise?"

Conan saw sudden relief in her eyes, but it was quickly replaced with a
more cynical glint. "Nay. Do not trouble yourself on our account. I
would not delay your journey to Nemedia." She sounded angry.

Conan shrugged. "As you wish." He turned to go back into his room.

"Wait," Kinna said, touching his shoulder with one hand. Her touch was
warm against his skin. "Forgive me. I offer rudeness where none is
deserved. Eldia told me how you saved her from the assassin in this
place earlier, and I myself saw you stand between her and the demon. I
cannot blame you for wishing to go about your own life instead of
continuing to risk it for our sakes."

Conan looked at her. She was a most attractive woman; she also kept her
hand on his arm.

"I would like you to inspect my window after all." She smiled. "And,
perhaps, afterward, we might also inspect the shutters in . . . your
room?"

For a moment Conan failed to understand. He nearly blurted out that
nothing was wrong with his shutters. Then he saw Kinna's smile, and he
understood. He returned her grin. "Aye," he said.

Conan stepped lightly over the recumbent form of Eldia and around that
of Vitarius, using the light of the taper Kinna held. He reached the
shuttered window and looked at it. Nothing amiss there. He turned
toward Kinna, already anticipating the short trip across the hall to
his room. "Shield the flame," he commanded in a whisper. With that,
Conan opened the shutters and stared into the rainy night.

Lightning flared twice in quick succession, driving away the darkness
and giving the barbarian a good view of the walls and lower rooftops
nearby. Save the storm, the night was empty as far as he could tell. He
started to close the slatted wood strips.

The inn began to rattle, as might a wall under a barrage of rocks by
small boys; Conan felt his hands and arms pelted, and he muttered a
quick oath.

Startled, Kinna said, "What-?"

"Hail," Conan answered. "As big as grapes."

The clatter increased, and a sudden fierce blast of wind and ice tore
the shutters from Conan's loose grasp. "Bel's eyes!" Conan leaned out
and reached for the free-swinging shutters, receiving a pounding of
hailstones for his trouble. He managed to snare one of the shutters and
was reaching for the second when the wind slackened and the hail
stopped. The rain continued to fall in heavy sheets, and there came a
sound, louder because of the relative silence following the stoppage of
hail. At first Conan thought the new sound thunder, but he quickly
discarded that notion; the noise was continuous.

Kinna joined the Cimmerian at the window. "What is that?"

Conan shook his head. "I know not-" he began. Then the lightning
flashed again and revealed the source of the rumble: A tornado
approached, twisting through the city, destroying everything in its
path. The rampaging funnel looked to be heading directly toward the
inn.

Someone moved behind Conan. Vitarius's voice cut through the wind and
rain. "What do you see out there?"

Conan pointed wordlessly. The lightning seemed to have stopped for the
moment, but there was no need of it; within the funnel of the tornado
discharges played almost continuously, giving the twirling wind a
bluish-yellow glow of its own, a ghostly, eerie luminescence unlike
anything Conan had ever observed. "Crom," Conan said softly, "a
devilwind."

Vitarius took in the sight. "Of that you may be certain, but it is no
natural thing. Watch how it moves in a straight line along its path; no
ordinary spinner does that. What you see before you is Sovartus's
doing. He unleashes the power of Air against us. Fire will not stop it.
We must flee, or when the storm leaves, it will bear us with it!"

Kinna leaped to rouse Eldia while Vitarius gathered up his pack
containing his magical gear. Conan continued to watch the tornado cut
an arrow's line toward the inn.

"We need a cellar or sewer," Conan said.

"Not for this storm," Vitarius said, shouldering his pack. "It will
simply stand and dig us out like moles. Our only hope is to get behind
it; even Sovartus and his control of Air cannot reverse the direction
of a storm so easily. We must move at angles to the wind and then into
it before the funnel can tack to find us."

The four made their way down the dark stairs and into the main room of
the inn. A pair of guttering fat lamps cast their luminous flux over
the dank walls, giving enough light for Conan to see the exit. "This
way," he commanded.

At that instant the door opened and a half-dozen men burst into the
room. Each was armed either with a sword or long dagger; several of the
rough lot bore ropes as well. The man leading wore an eyepatch, but
there was nothing wrong with his remaining eye, for he jerked to a halt
and pointed at Conan. "There he be, boys. Come to save us a climb, I
reckons. "

Blades flashed in the faint lamplight as the six men moved apart from
one another and toward Conan. The Cimmerian never paused to wonder at
the cause of this new danger; he merely drew his own broadsword and
moved to meet it.

"Time, Conan, we do not have time!" Vitarius waved his hands vaguely in
the air.

Conan grinned tightly, but did not look away from his adversaries. "I
shall hurry as best I can."

Two of the men blocked the exit; the rest fanned out, trying to
encircle Conan. The barbarian grinned. This was his kind of fight,
steel and muscle, not magic. He picked a target, a wolf-faced man
bearing a short sword. Conan hesitated not an instant, but sprang with
feral grace at the man, swinging the broadsword in a two-handed sweep
across his body. Wolf-face raised his blade, but too slowly; Conan's
cut tore a furrow across the man's throat which showed for an instant
the villain's spine. The man gurgled and fell backward.

A second man attacked Conan from the rear, swinging his sword overhead
in a body-splitter strike. Conan turned and blocked, tensing the sinews
of his thick arm. Steel kissed steel, and the two blades sang together;
Conan's arm moved not at all, and the man lost his balance as he
recovered from the failed stroke. Conan slid forward, the point of his
weapon leading, and skewered the back-striker just under the
breastbone. Conan raised one foot and shoved the falling body from his
blade with his boot. He spun, to face two more attackers moving in
together. Conan set himself to spring; better to attack before they
could gather their wits to coordinate themselves-four was the most
dangerous number of opponents.

The inn shook then, as if swatted by a giant's hand.

"Conan! The devil-wind!" That from Kinna.

"Ow, I'm cut!" one of the men guarding the door screamed in pain,
drawing the attention of the pair set to attack Conan.

The Cimmerian looked that way, to see little Eldia hacking away at the
man with her weapon. Her speed was dazzling, and the man bore only a
long dagger, with which he was ineffectually trying to protect his
legs. Even as Conan watched, the girl darted in and sliced the man's
leg again.

"Brat!" the man yelled, but he backed away from the door, nearly
bumping into his fellow.

Vitarius was trying to work some kind of spell, Conan saw, mumbling and
waving his arms; there was no effect apparent to the brawny Cimmerian.
He turned back to the two men facing him and moved on them, weaving a
deadly pattern of razor-sharp edges.

The man with the eyepatch tried to circle outside Conan's reach, but
the Cimmerian followed him, avoiding the second man, who was too fat to
move quickly. The fat man was breathing hard as he tried to bring his
sword into play against Conan's side.

The inn shook again, and the sound of the wind and fight was joined by
that of voices yelling from up the stair. With a howl of joy Conan
jumped for One-eye, blade whirling.

Loganaro watched the approach of destruction, feet frozen by his awe.
Never in all his travels had he seen such a storm; that it was
unnatural seemed all too obvious. Who had sent the terrible whirlwind,
and why, also flitted across his mind, but that thought was quickly
chased away by the fear of dying amid a hail of debris. His cutthroats
could look to themselves for survival; the barbarian was not so
important as living for a short time more. Loganaro turned and sprinted
away from the oncoming disaster. He would worry about what to tell
Lemparius later.

Djuvula was nearly home when she saw the magically created monster wind
rip its way through the maze of Mornstadinos like a ferret seeking a
particular rat. Her occult eye immediately noted the storm for what it
was, and it was only the work of a second to realize by whom it had
been sent, as well. Hurriedly, the witch turned and began to run back
toward the inn, splashing through the gutters and driving rain. If
Sovartus's tame whirlwind collected the girl, Djuvula would lose a
chance to increase her powers. More, there was the brave-hearted
barbarian to consider. Of course, he was less important; Loganaro had
another candidate for her, but of his opinion she was less than
certain. Any man who could take the hand from a demon and survive had
to be more than ordinary. But the girl was paramount in her interest.

Stalking in the wake of destruction walked a giant figure, unseen by
the eyes of men. Red the figure was, and one-handed. It muttered to
itself as it walked, the rumble of its voice merging with the thunder.
"You think wrongly, magician, if you think to cheat me of my revenge by
employing other means to your evil ends. I will have this man!"

The walls of the Milk of Wolves Inn began to moan, as if in
anticipation of their destruction. The exit door was blown open
violently, tearing itself nearly from its crusty brass hinges; the sign
marking the name of the place crashed to the ground and pinwheeled
through the open doorway. The wolf salient had finally leaped; it came
to rest against a table.

Conan had backed One-eye into a corner, and the man was fighting for
his life. The pair of blackguards with daggers had been driven from the
doorway by Eldia's small but deadly sword, assisted by the dagger of
her sister; finally, Vitarius must have managed to get some kind of
magic to work, for the fat assassin screamed as he began to glow redly,
and to float half a span from the floor.

Vitarius yelled, to be heard over the heavy thunder created by the
whirlwind which was nearly upon them.

"Conan! We must leave! Now!"

The Cimmerian made no answer, but lunged instead at One-eye. The man
managed to block the sword, but in so doing, opened his head to attack.
Conan curled the fingers of his right hand into a huge fist and slammed
it against the man's jaw. The bone snapped and the man was flung half
his length backward. to smack into the now-vibrating wall. He slid to
the floor, unconscious. Conan turned. "Go! Get out!"

Vitarius obeyed, leaving the fat man floating and screaming. Eldia and
Kinna backed away from the two cutthroats with daggers, who showed no
inclination to pursue them as Conan ran toward the door, waving his
gore-smeared sword.

Outside, the wind struck the four with such force that for a moment
they could make no headway. Conan alone could fight the blasts of the
storm, but even his great strength would not be enough to tow an old
man and two sisters against the wind.

Vitarius waved madly, his voice lost in the tempest. Conan understood
what he wanted: They must move along the building, using it for
support.

The four people seemed to be flies sticking to the wall, but they
managed to creep along until they reached the corner of the building.
There Conan led the way around the edge, his arm linked to Kinna's. She
in turn held her sister, who clasped Vitarius's bony wrist. The wind
shoved the human chain down the street like so many leaves. They ran so
fast, Conan almost lost his footing. He remembered, however, what
Vitarius had said earlier: They must run aslant to the oncoming twister
and get behind it. After moving a short way down the street, Conan
ducked into the lee of a temple, dragging the trio with him. He paused
long enough to allow them to catch their breath.

A portion of some building blew by in the street, torn from a
structure. Conan pointed and yelled, "That way!"

They ran, gathering their energies when they had to leave the
protection of houses or fences, leaning into the wind.

Behind them, the devil-wind changed direction, so that only its edge
sliced into the Milk of Wolves Inn. Conan turned to stare at the
rampaging black monster, still reflecting its own ghostly light. He saw
the bodies of the cutthroats fly into the air, spinning into the maw of
the tornado. There was one he had slain; there went the fat man. He did
not see the man with the patch. He did see that the storm tried to
pursue them and so redoubled his efforts. Through it, Conan felt no
real fear; rather it was the challenge of beating the storm that drove
him. By Crom, no storm was as agile as a Cimmerian!

The wind tried to turn, but the clouds from which it dragged its
sucking tip could not adjust their path so easily. The storm angled
toward them, but slowly. When Conan judged they were far enough, he
turned again, heading more into the wind. Debris smacked into him, but
he held fast to the woman behind him. digging his boots deeply into the
churned mud of the street. At one point Vitarius slipped; such was the
wind that for an instant he floated flaglike from the taut arm of
Eldia. Fortunately for him, the girl's grip was strong, else he would
have been blown away.

The tornado raged, ripping the houses and stables and temples asunder,
shredding planks as if they were straw, driving the resulting straws
like spears to impale all before them. A stick of wood penetrated a
thick fence post in front of him as if the stick were steel and the
post no more than butter. The whirlwind seemed to stretch, to try to
reach its quarry, brushing aside obstacles as easily as a man brushes
crumbs from a table. Such a force seemed unstoppable; indeed, nothing
man-created could withstand it. After what seemed several lifetimes,
the Cimmerian drew level with the wind-devil; several lifetimes later,
he was past-and behind it.

The tornado seemed to stand still: it tried to move back along its
path. Conan held his breath, watching. After a moment. one stretching
very long, the funnel began to move again, away from the young
Cimmerian and the others.

The storm had been defeated. In a moment the swirling clouds overhead
lifted their dragging tail of destruction, and the whirlwind was
reclaimed. Gone.


Chapter Eight

Conan saw the demon first. The wind died slowly after the clouds sucked
their whirling maw skyward: gone the tornado might be, but not the rain
and ordinary airs of the storm. Conan led Vitarius, Eldia, and Kinna
across the path left by the wind-beast, a path much like a road cut
through a forest. Following the whirlwind's trail was the red demon,
who saw Conan near the same instant he himself was spotted by the man.
Despite the lashing rain, the Cimmerian could observe the demon's face
as it contorted in hatred. Conan drew his sword as the monster turned
and began to sprint toward him.

"Vitarius!" This from Eldia, who pointed at the approaching devil.

The old magician turned and beheld the scene. Quickly, he laid one hand
upon the head of the girl; the other hand he raised and pointed at the
fast-arriving creature.

The demon skidded to a stop twenty paces away. "No," he said loudly.
"Score me not with your Fire's tongue again."

Vitarius hesitated. He looked at Conan.

The Cimmerian shook his head. "Nay," he said. "He would speak, I think.
Allow him."

The demon drew himself up to his full impressive height. "I would have
you know my name," he said. "You are of the White, and so cannot use it
against me even were I not bound to another. I am Djavul."

Conan never lowered his blade a hair. "Why should we care, demon?"
Rivulets ran down the sharp steel onto his hands.

"I am bound against you, wasp. but even were I not, your life is still
forfeit under any circumstances. You owe me for this." Djavul raised
his arm and extended the stump toward Conan. "Because you have done
what no other man has ever done in injuring me so, I would have you
know the name of the one who sends you to the gray lands. Ah, but very
slowly you shall make the transition, wasp."

Vitarius raised his hand and aimed it at the demon, but Conan shook his
head. "Nay, I say again, magician. I have my blade; I need not your
protection. Let him come." The young giant shifted his stance, spread
his legs wider for balance, and gripped the wet leather handle of the
broadsword tighter. "You have been stung once, Djavul of Hell; come, I
shall sting you again." Conan shook rain from his eyes.

Djavul looked from Conan toward Vitarius and Eldia, then back at the
Cimmerian. "I think not, wasp."

"The magician stays out of it," Conan said inching forward slightly.
Mud squished under his boots.

Djavul laughed. "Trusting the words of men has led more than one
night-child into foolishness. This is not the time or place. But I will
see you again wasp." Djavul flicked a red-eyed glance back at Vitarius.
"And you as well, White one."

Abruptly, there came a clap of noise that rivaled the storm's thunder,
and Djavul vanished.

With the rain still falling upon them, Conan turned to glare at
Vitarius. "It would seem that I have made an enemy for myself. "

"The fault is mine," Vitarius said.

"It would seem you have made more than one enemy, Conan." This from
Kinna, who stood staring at the spot where Djavul had vanished.

The Cimmerian looked at her. "How so?"

"Those men who attacked us as we left the inn. They came for you, not
for us. Recall what the patch-eyed man said?"

Conan brought the memory forth: There he be, boys. Come to save us a
climb, l reckons. Kinna was right. But-why had they come for him? He
had no enemies in this place save the hellspawn, Djavul. The devil
wanted him, to be sure, but it seemed unlikely he would have sent human
cutthroats to do his bidding. Who had sent them, then? It was a puzzle,
a mystery, and Conan liked such things not.

"Perhaps we would be better served to get out of the rain," Vitarius
said. "We might sort things out just as well dry as wet."

"Aye," Conan said, but his disquiet remained.

Djuvula watched her brother rage at the beautiful man with the sword,
smiling as she did so. Ah, yes, this one was surely the one she sought.
Her gaze covered the barbarian lovingly, despite the rainy darkness.
Such thick, smooth muscle he had, and such a wonderful rage simmered in
his flashing blue eyes as he faced Djavul with only a sword. His heart
would drive her Prince as no other heart had been able to move him.
Yes.

Djavul vanished to Gehanna. Djuvula slid back into the cover of soaked
hay bales, stacked head-high. It would not do for them to see her just
yet. For a moment Djuvula's mind warred with itself: so much to have!
Here was the girl, the essence of Fire: the child glowed with it as a
beacon lit to guide ships in fog-at least to one able to see such
things, as a witch of power could. And the barbarian with the beautiful
body, ah, how she wanted him!

Her smile increased. Perhaps she might allow this man that which she
had given up on in other men, before she excised his mighty heart. Who
knew? Such a barbarian might be possessed of vital energies beyond
ordinary limits. She could . . . utilize him for a time before
animating her Prince. Certainly he looked capable . . . .

Djuvula shook her head, as if to clear away the fantasy within by her
action. She should think of the girl first. Then she laughed softly to
herself. Why not slay two birds with the same stone? If she exercised
care, she could have the girl and the man together. It would not be
easy; the White Mage had demonstrated his power to Djavul before, and
the witch could see the fear in her brother's eyes as he faced the old
man again. No, it would have to be carefully done, using guile instead
of force. Even as she thought it, Djuvula began to think of a plan.
Yes, a plan that would allow her to use her very special talents . . .
.

Senator Lemparius shed his wet clothes and went directly to the hot
bath- kept ever so, awaiting his pleasure. As he sank into the water
the warm vapors swirled around his head, bringing the scent of crushed
mint to his nostrils. Ah . . .

One of the deputies scurried into the room, bowing as he came. "My lord
Senator," the man began, "a terrible windstorm has wreaked much damage
to the city, killing dozens of citizens."

Lemparius shrugged within the womb of blissful heat. "So? What is done
is done; why disturb my bath for such?"

The deputy appeared undisturbed by the senator's lack of concern. "The
man who brought this news awaits without, to speak to you of a matter
related to this disaster."

"Send him away." Lemparius managed to raise one hand languidly to wave
at the deputy; vapor rose from his skin into the cooler air of the
bathchamber.

"As you command, my lord. The man would have you know his name,
however. He calls himself Loganaro."

Senator Lemparius smiled. "Ah, there is a beast of a different strain.
Admit him."

As the deputy left, Lemparius sank yet deeper into the perfumed water,
until his nose was barely clear of the liquid. A shame cats hated the
water so.

Loganaro entered the chamber. The man was muddy and bedraggled, his
face filled with a mix of ratlike cunning and fear.

The senator bobbed up slightly, clearing his mouth. "Where have you
deposited my barbarian? You have collected him by this time?"

"Honored Senator, there was a complication-"

"Complication? Speak not of such! Complications in my service most
often lead to ultimate simplification, if you understand my meaning?"

The fat man swallowed. Water still dripped from his gray hair. "It-it
could not have been foreseen, lord! A windstorm arose even as my
minions collected the barbarian. The inn containing them was
demolished, smashed, and scattered; there was nothing to be done!"

Lemparius sat up in the bath and pointed one sharp fingernail at his
agent. "I hope you are not telling me my prey was sucked up by a
storm."

"N-nay, Honored Senator. My . . . collectors were; somehow, the
Cimmerian and his friends escaped."

"Where, then, are they?"

"My agent follows them currently; he will report back to me as soon as
they alight."

Lemparius relaxed a little, sinking into the massive tub. "Then I see
no complication. Merely a delay. As soon as this man settles; you shall
simply . . . retrieve him, eh? Only take care that this Cimmerian stays
within your grasp, Loganaro mine. Otherwise there is that
simplification of which I spoke. A state of being ever so much more
simple than one so complex as, say, living and breathing."

Loganaro swallowed and nodded, his damp pale face going more ghostly.

When he had gone, Lemparius smiled. He took a deep breath and sank
beneath the water, staying long enough for the warmth to caress his
closed eyes and soak his hair. When he came up for air, he was still
smiling.

Castle Slott rang with the shouts of its master. "Set curse them all!
By the Eternal Fires, I will have her!"

The three children iron-linked to the cold wall shrank back, as if they
could sink into the stone away from Sovartus's wrath.

Sovartus flashed a grimace filled with hatred at the three,
concentrating his gaze particularly upon Luft, the boy of Air. "You
resisted me somehow," the magician said. "Else that wind would have
drawn my quarry up and delivered her to me. I shall remember this,
never fear."

With that, Sovartus stalked away from the three, his mind whirling with
schemes for achievement of his goal. He muttered to himself as he
moved. "Where rests my demon? If he cannot win the girl, he can at
least find her and watch her! And what have I done with my casting
sphere? Ah, may the Black-Souled Ones take everyone!"

The place was a shed for storage of dried meat and fish, hardly fit
accommodations for men; still, it was dry under the solid roof. Crowded
into the small cleared space beneath hanging racks of jerky and smoked
fish, Conan stood glowering at Vitarius. The old man spoke.

"I cannot say who sent the assassins, if that was their intent. Because
of the ropes they carried, I suspect the unfortunates intended to
capture you."

Conan shook his head, fanning his damp black hair away from his face.
"There is no sense to that," he said. "I am unknown in these parts; no
one would have reason to hold me."

"An old enemy, perhaps?" Kinna said this as she tried to light a stub
of candle from a flint-and-steel she worked. Sparks flared in the shed,
falling like shooting stars.

"Most of my enemies lie dead," Conan said. "None who live would bother
to follow me this far from where I earned their enmity."

One of Kinna's sparks touched the greasy wick of the candle, appeared
to smolder for a moment, then went out. Conan thought she uttered a
curse, but her voice was too quiet for even his ears to understand what
she said.

Almost absently. Eldia raised her finger and pointed it at the candle.
The stub of wax and string lit seemingly of its own accord, casting
shadows to the walls and ceiling of the shed.

"So," Kinna said, looking away from the candle at Conan, "what will you
do now?"

He considered his choices. He still cared little for practitioners of
sorcerous arts. White. Black, or any other color: a quick exit from
this city would serve his purposes well enough. Numalia beckoned, and
there was certainly no profit to be had in staying here to contest with
demons and magicians, not to mention the unknown master of the
cutthroats dispatched by wind and blade to their destinies.

On the other hand, Conan felt a perverse stubbornness rising in him, a
feeling of rage at being threatened. No matter that the hellish demon
had reason for anger, nor that the master of the cutthroats now had
similar reasons-his minions were scattered meat, no more. Conan had
been minding his own affairs and had been provoked; such provocation
deserved no less than he had given. Likely a prudent man would
interpret such attacks as a sign from his patron gods to travel
elsewhere at a goodly pace. Cimmerians were not, however, always
prudent. Conan's anger at those responsible for causing him such
discomfort was great; those who held Crom as their deity could not be
faint-hearted. Crom was a hard god who offered little to his followers:
he was savage, gloomy and dealt in death; more, Crom hated weaklings
and cowards above all. Crom dispensed courage and will, taken in with
life's first breath from out the womb. A man did not honor Crom by
running from danger, no matter how great.

Conan stared at the trio gathered around the light of the single
candle. He was bound for Nemedia, to be certain, and he did not like
magicians, but there were matters to be attended to here.

The others waited for Conan to speak. At last, he did.

"It seems as if we are allies for a time," the Cimmerian said. his
voice nearly a growl. He liked it little, but there it stood. He
focused on Vitarius. "I trust you have some plan for defeating our
mutual enemy?"

The old mage smiled. "Of a sort, Conan. Of a sort."


Chapter Nine

Loganaro found himself beset by a large problem: Where was the
barbarian? That he had lied to Lemparius bothered Loganaro not a whit;
he had seen Conan flee the destroyed inn, even as he had made good his
own escape. Unfortunately, there had been no agents following the
Cimmerian in the midst of that tempest.

Such a lie was simply an elementary precaution Loganaro had long since
learned to take when dealing with powerful men. Conan had somehow
escaped and still lived; therefore, he could be located, in time. If,
however, Lemparius had suspected that Loganaro had lost the barbarian,
events might have taken a decided turn in the direction of . . .
simplification, a term that left no doubt in Loganaro's mind as to its
meaning.

The short figure hurried through the dampness of the early morning,
only now beginning to be awash in the rays of the rising sun. The storm
had done much to rearrange whole streets and alleys; Loganaro picked
his way toward what had been the Milk of Wolves Inn.

Even though the full might of the whirlwind had not struck the inn,
there was left little to proclaim it so. The wooden bones of the inn
lay mostly scattered; only a single wall remained, standing guard over
the pile of rubble. Loganaro felt drawn to this wall, even as he
wondered why he had returned to this place. He had a network of
informants second to no other free agent in Mornstadinos; he should be
locating runners to put forth the word on the barbarian, alerting his
eyes and ears to the search. For some reason, however, he was here.

A few stunned men and women wandered about in the wreckage, searching
for survivors and, perhaps, lost possessions. Loganaro watched them for
a short while, then decided his own time was being wasted here. He
turned to leave.

The rubble issued a groan. Or, rather, someone under the rubble moaned.
Mildly curious, Loganaro moved toward the source of the sound. As he
neared an overturned table, the free agent saw a hand scrabble up and
shove at the remains of what had been a wall.

While Loganaro seldom performed any act without considering the gain
for himself, he did so now. He bent and pulled at the impedimenta
covering the owner of the hand. After a moment the face of the man
under the debris became visible: It was Patch, one of Loganaro's
cutthroats. Loganaro helped the man dig free, noticing that the
Zamorian seemed unscathed save for a swollen jaw.

"What happened?" Patch mumbled painfully.

"You do not know?"

"I remember nothing but the big man. He be a formidable foe, right
enough. Where be the others?"

"There was a twisting storm which took them. It did this." Loganaro
waved one fat arm at the ruined inn.

"Got the barbarian, this twister?"

"Nay. He escaped with his friends."

Patch nodded, gently rubbing his swollen jaw. "Then you be still
seeking the big man." It was not a question.

"Aye. And the reward has been raised." Loganaro had not thought of this
before he said it, but he had no desire to leave life just yet. He had
accumulated a great deal of ill-gotten monies, and the thought of
profit on this venture no longer drove him as much as the fear of
joining his ancestors prematurely. "Thirty pieces of gold."

Patch nodded, wincing. "Aye, a goodly sum, but who claims it shall have
to earn it. Two, maybe three of my men lay dead 'fore the big man
felled me. The whirlstorm claimed more dead than living here. This one
you be seeking owes me."

"Alive," Loganaro said. "He must be taken alive."

"Aye, alive it be, but maybe some damaged."

Loganaro nodded. Patch was reputed to be one of the best men in
Mornstadinos at this kind of work; it would not hurt for him to have a
personal stake in retrieving Conan.

"Collect him within the next two days and there will be a bonus of five
solons for you personally," Loganaro said.

Patch tried to grin, then apparently thought better of it as he clapped
a hand to his swollen jaw. "Aye, pursemaster, you'll have your
barbarian. Alive."

"Since it would seem that others seek us, in addition to Sovartus and
his demon-thrall, it might be best if we stayed out of sight as much as
possible until we can implement our plan," Vitarius said.

Conan leaned against a rack of dried fish and chewed with less than
enthusiasm on a chunk of jerky. The meat was salty and dry; he wished
for some wine to wash the leathery beef down. Might as well wish for a
palace in Shadizer while you are at it, Conan thought. Aloud, he said,
"I see flaws in your plan, old one."

Kinna took a piece of dried fish from the point of her sister's blade
and regarded it with mild distaste. She said, "What flaws?"

"Our master magician purports that we leave the city soonest, mounted
and well-supplied, for a journey to beard the lion in his den. A direct
assault is to my liking, but I question how we are to become affluent
enough to afford this journey. Have we gold or silver of which I am
unaware?"

Conan looked at the three faces in turn, seeing negative shakes and
raised eyebrows for his answer.

"I thought not. How, then, do you propose we obtain fine horses,
saddles, and sundry supplies? Will you create such with your magic'?"

"Ah," Vitarius said, "unfortunately, no. White spells generally allow
the worker little for personal gain."

"A pity. If one must deal with magic, it is too bad one cannot
benefit." Conan grinned and picked at his teeth with his dagger's
point, clearing away bits of meat. "Now it seems we come to something
that falls into my area of expertise. "

Eldia speared a chunk of dried fish with her blade, flipped it into the
air, and caught it in her mouth. She chewed lustily, obviously enjoying
the tidbit. "How so, Conan?"

Conan paused long enough to open the door of the drying shed, to allow
the morning's light into the dank room. The sun shone brightly from an
ice-blue, cloudless sky. He looked back at the trio. "Tell me, who are
the richest two or three men in the city?"

Vitarius scratched his cheek, considering. "Well, Tonore the rug
merchant certainly would be one; then either Stephanos of Punt, the
landlord, or Lemparius the Whip, I would think. Why?"

Conan ignored the question, asking yet another instead: "How do these
men keep their wealth? Gold? Jewels?"

"Tonore's money is tied up in his wares mostly. He has a collection of
carpets from as far away as Iranistan and Zembabwei. Too, he collects
works of art, statues and paintings mostly. Stephanos is a landowner,
and I would say most of his wealth consists of inns, brothels, and
other such properties. Likely somewhat reduced since last eve's
devilish storm. "

"What of Lemparius the Whip? And what does that mean?"

"He is the Center Strand of the Senate Flail, the most powerful of all
the senators. In the city-states of Corinthia there are a few kings,
but in Mornstadinos the people are ruled by a Senate. Many of the
senators are wealthy, Lemparius probably more so than most."

"And how does he hold his money?"

"He has a palace, very opulent, so I understand. And he has a fondness
for magical and mechanical toys, upon which he spends no small amount;
by and large, though, I suspect Lemparius has more than a few sacks of
gold and silver within his walls."

Conan's grin increased. "Ah, good."

Kinna spat a fish bone onto the dirt floor. "But-why are these things
important, Conan?"

Conan faced the young woman, taken again by her beauty despite the
dingy surroundings. "Because, Kinna, we need horses and supplies and
cannot afford the time or effort needed to earn such things honestly."

Eldia understood more quickly than did her sister. She said, "You mean
we're going to-?"

"-steal from the senator?" Conan finished. "Aye, Firechild, that we
are."

One of the items in a witch's arsenal was a simple spell to create a
magical, invisible thread of great length and strength. After she
watched the beautiful barbarian and his friends enter the ramshackle
shed, Djuvula created such a thread. Moving with all the stealth at her
command, she stretched a section of this thread across the doorway,
anchoring it lightly on either side of the entrance. When the
inhabitants left the shed, the thread would entangle one or more of
them, stretching to follow them from the shed as far as they might
travel. The caster of the spell need only follow the glowing line, a
line unseen by all without magically enhanced vision. There was a
chance the old wizard might discover it, but such a possibility seemed
unlikely: The spell was so simple and unthreatening, it almost always
passed unnoticed save by one searching specifically for it.

The spell thrown, Djuvula hurriedly returned to her manse. The magic
she contemplated required more than the small ingredients she normally
carried upon her person. When that cantrip was completed, Djuvula could
return and await her chance to get the beautiful barbarian alone. He
would then deliver the girl to Djuvula. She smiled, thinking of it.

There existed some risk in the spell-the woman would have to be removed
from the barbarian's presence somehow-but such a risk was small
compared to the possible gain.

In her spellroom Djuvula quickly stripped away her clothing, to stand
naked in front of her focusing mirror. Nakedness was required for most
of her major spells, but Djuvula had long since been undaunted by such
a necessity. She had, in fact, come to enjoy the feel of air on her
nude body, a sensual part of witchery that suited her much better than
any clothing men could produce.

There was another inn, some distance away, of which Vitarius knew; he
led Conan and the sisters from the shed toward this place. As they
exited the home of dried meat and fish, Conan thought he felt a strand
of spider's silk brush his arm. He brushed at the line of web, but saw
nothing, and so quickly forgot about it.

Even in the middle of disaster, people rallied and scurried to repair
the damage. Already, teams of horses and oxen were at work, dragging
rubble from pathways, clearing away downed timbers and adobe walls from
alleys. As the four walked, they happened upon a further disaster in
the making. Seven or eight men tugged on ropes attached to a fallen
roof beam as thick as a fat man; the beam stood balanced precariously
against a half-destroyed wall. The crew sought merely to topple the
long timber in order, Conan thought, to bring down the fragment of wall
that remained. That the men were inexpert was all too apparent to
Conan; at least two of them stood directly under the heavy beam. If it
should fall . . .

As he watched, the beam slipped from its support and came crashing
down. One man jumped from under the falling weight with great agility,
but the second man's speed was not sufficient. The beam pinned the
unfortunate victim to the ground as a man's sandaled foot pins a snake.
He screamed as the wood smashed both his legs to the dirt. The
remaining men immediately began trying to lift the beam, cursing as
they realized they had not the strength. It looked hopeless.

Conan sprang, unthinking. Such was the speed of his movement that the
men gripping the timber jumped back, as if fearing attack.

The Cimmerian ignored them. He wrapped his great arms around the end of
the fallen beam and squatted, so that he held the wood to his chest. He
shifted his feet slightly wider and tried to stand. Individual muscles
stood out on his thighs like a network of thick bands: the hard flesh
of his bare arms writhed as though small animals roved under his skin.
The beam did not move.

Conan adjusted his grip, took a deep breath, and screamed a wordless,
guttural yell that caused the hair to stand on the necks of several
watchers. With a contraction that caused his rock-hard thews to
vibrate, the young giant stood, keeping his back stiff as his legs
straightened. For a moment he stood there holding the giant beam, great
veins standing out all over his exposed flesh like tiny snakes. Then
the barbarian heaved the timber away from himself with a thrust of his
hips. The heavy wood fell with a ground-shaking crash just past the end
of the formerly trapped man's feet. Conan shook himself once and
stretched his shoulders. "Best you be more careful," he said. "I might
not walk this way again." He turned and strode back to where his
friends stood, staring.

Kinna spoke first. "By Mitra! No man can be so strong!"

Conan grinned. "What? For lifting that twig?" Are there no men where
you come from?"

Kinna's voice was soft and full of admiration. "None such as you."

Conan grinned wider, pleased with himself. This was the kind of chore
for a man, one that needed quick reactions and strength-and one that
impressed women and men alike.

The Cimmerian felt the slightest touch upon his leg then, just where
his leathern breech gapped over his boots, but when he looked there was
nothing to be seen.

The Smoking Cat inn might have been constructed on the same pattern as
had the Milk of Wolves. The same benches, the same tables, even the
same servers. The place was not crowded; however, likely owing to all
the work needed to be done outside. Conan and the others found a table
easily, and ordered wine and breakfast. "Might as well spend what we
have," the Cimmerian said, "for we should have much more shortly."

"Stealing from a rich man could be very dangerous," Eldia said.

Conan smiled at the girl. "Aye. But I have some . . . experience in
such things."

"There is a high wall surrounding Lemparius's estate," Vitarius put in.

"They have yet to build a wall a Cimmerian cannot climb," Conan said.
He quaffed a cup of wine.

Kinna stared at him with curiosity in her eyes. Finally, she spoke.
"How is it that you are so strong and so adept, Conan?"

He shrugged. "Cimmeria is a rocky land; ofttimes the rocks are in
places where they impede a man's progress. Such rocks must be moved;
some of them are heavy. As to my skills, well, a man learns what he
must to survive."

"How are we to accomplish this-ah-liberation of valuables?" Vitarius
said.

"Not 'we,' magician, me. I work best alone. You shall arrange today for
our supplies; on the morrow I shall return with funds sufficient to pay
for these things. Simple." Conan lifted another cup of wine to his lips
and smiled again. This was more to his liking, and what he should have
done in the first place-then he would have never become entangled with
the nasty webs of magic he so disliked.

Djuvula the Witch smiled as she followed the glowing line of the thread
that led to her prey. Soon he would be hers!

Patch, the cutthroat, grinned evilly as he watched the barbarian drink
his third cup of wine. Good. If the man were drunk, so much the better.
He had planned to assemble a host of assistants earlier, but upon
seeing the barbarian, Patch felt such a rage that he dismissed his
earlier thoughts. No. He would strike when the big man was not
prepared; he would knock him senseless and then work on the unconscious
form with his bare hands and shod feet until he felt some measure of
revenge. Aye, that be the way of it, to do it singly, to balm his wound
and pride. No man defeated Patch and escaped unscathed. No man!


Chapter Ten

Conan decided to sleep for a few hours so that he might be rested and
fresh for his nocturnal business. While the others went to arrange for
their travel supplies, the barbarian ascended the stairs to the rooms
the group had rented. The pair of rooms could have been twins to the
ones at the destroyed Milk of Wolves Inn. Conan picked one and entered,
bolting the door behind him. He sprawled upon the ticking and soon fell
fast asleep.

Djuvula followed the magic thread up the stairs of the inn. The glowing
line ended at the door to one of the sleeping rooms. One or more of
those she sought must be inside. It was important, however, that she
find the beautiful barbarian alone. Her spell would do her little good
if there were another woman within the man's reach. How could she find
out?

After a moment the idea came to her. Quickly, Djuvula descended the
stairway and found a clean-up boy clearing tables. "Like to earn a few
coppers, boy?"

"Aye, mistress. Whom shall I slay for you?"

"Not such a large task as that, boy. Just knock on the door of the room
I point out and see how many people are within when you are answered.
Say you have come to change the bedding."

Djuvula handed the boy several coppers, and then followed him up the
stairs. She pointed out the door, then moved back down the stairway,
out of sight.

After a few moments the boy returned.

"Well?"

"There is but one in the room, mistress, and he seems an ill-tempered
one at that. He said he would skewer me, were I to bother him again for
such stupidity."

"What did he look like, boy?"

"A giant of a man mistress. A barbarian."

Djuvula smiled and gave the boy a handful of coppers. "Speak of this to
no one, boy."

"I should hope not," the boy said. "Fat-arse the owner would take my
money faster than flies locate dung."

When she was alone in the hallway again, Djuvula brought forth from her
silken robe a vial stoppered with cork and wax; inside this
clear-walled vessel was a liquid that glowed faintly, like phosphorus.
She pried the cork from the bottle's mouth and bent to pour a line of
the fluid along the base of the door. Vapor rose in a thick yellow
cloud, and the sorceress hastily backed away from the smoke.

Conan awoke suddenly. Something was wrong. Some strange smell had
invaded his dreams . . . . He sat up suddenly and stared. In the light
admitted by the poorly fitted shutters he saw a thin haze of yellow
smoke filling the room. He sniffed deeply, then coughed as the
irritating fumes filled his nostrils. Was the inn on fire? No, this was
like no odor he had smelled before; no wood fed this noxious vapor-

He suddenly found himself suffused with an emotion altogether different
from curiosity: His body seemed about to burst-with lust.

There came a knock at his door. A female voice called to him. "Open the
door, my beautiful barbarian."

Conan felt confusion. The voice was seductive and carried the tones of
warm honey, the promise of undreamed of fulfillment. His lust
increased. He moved to the door, slid back the bolt, and jerked the
door wide.

The woman who stood there was covered from head to toe in a deep blue
robe of fine silk. As he watched, the figure raised pale hands to slip
back the hood covering her face and head. By all the gods, she was
beautiful! Her hair was flame, her skin unblemished white, her lips
ruby and smiling.

"Am I to stand in the drafty hallway?" she said.

Conan took two hesitant steps backward, and the woman followed, gliding
smoothly across the floor. She eased the door shut behind her and
smiled at him. She stood motionless for a moment, then slowly brought
her hands to the front of the robe. With a quick flip of her fingers
she opened the front of the robe and shrugged it away.

Beneath the blue silk she was naked.

Conan licked suddenly dry lips. By Mitra, what a woman! She was
glorious! Her legs, her breasts-her whole body was perfect!

The mysterious woman reached out toward him with both hands.

Conan's desire knew no bounds. He stepped forward and wrapped his thick
arms around the woman, hugging her to him, lifting her clear of the
floor. He felt the stab of her fingernails, but such did not matter.
Nothing mattered in all the world save taking his pleasure with this
woman!

The boy pointed to the door of the sleeping room. "That is the room you
seek, sir."

Patch flipped a coin at the boy, a silver piece, but he begrudged it
not. In a short while Patch would be thirty-five gold solons
richer-what mattered a single silver? He waited until the boy was gone
and he was alone in the hall; then Patch stole softly to the door of
the barbarian's room. Caution was called for despite his desire for
revenge.

As Patch placed his ear against the door, the wooden plank moved a
hair. Unbolted, by Set's black hand! He grinned. The barbarian be
foolish not to lock his door; he'd sealed his doom! Still moving
quietly, the one-eyed man drew his sword.

A soft moan came from within the room. Patch paused, cocking his head
to one side. What be this? Why, that sounded like-

The cutthroat grinned more widely. Ah, this be a stroke of good
fortune, indeed! Asura smiled upon him, for the barbarian likely would
not notice his entrance in that he seemed occupied with . . . other
matters. Patch took a deep breath, lifted his blade to strike, and
shoved wide the door.

Conan could not understand the reason for his sudden lust or the
appearance of the woman who seemed bent on slaking it; neither, it must
be said, did he try particularly hard to fathom it. But when the door
to his room crashed open and a man sprang through the entrance waving a
sword, Conan understood that well enough. The spell holding him broke.

The woman in his arms pulled back at the look on Conan's face. "What-?"
She twisted to ape Conan's stare and beheld the assassin.

Conan thrust the naked woman away from him with a snarl. "So,
dog-sister, you sought to occupy me for your butcher!"

"No!" the woman yelled.

There was no time for such a discussion, Conan knew. He rolled across
the floor as the attacker brought his blade down. The sword cleaved the
bed and not Conan. The Cimmerian grabbed his own blade and sprang to
his feet, facing the cutthroat. By Crom, it was the patch-eyed man he'd
fought in the tavern before the windstorm!

Behind the two men, the woman cursed with a command of invective Conan
had seldom heard, even from soldiers or seamen. The Cimmerian grinned
wolfishly at Patch and moved half a pace toward him. "Back for more of
the same, One-eye?"

"The bells will toll your dirge, barbarian," Patch snarled. "Alive, you
be wanted, but no man taunts me and lives! You be a dead man."

Conan's grin remained in place. "When last we met, I survived-we will
see whose dirge plays, assassin."

Patch lunged, feinted with his blade, then swept a fanlike stroke
across his body, aimed at decapitating Conan. Conan gave no ground,
however, but instead moved toward the other man, holding his blade in a
grip of iron. The one-eyed brigand's sword clanged against Conan's and
rebounded. Patch cursed.

The Cimmerian raised his sword overhead to split his opponent from
skull to crotch: before he could strike, however, Patch pulled a short
dagger from his belt with his free hand and slashed at Conan. The
bigger man leaped back, but the dagger drew a furrow across his thigh;
blood welled and ran downward.

Conan reached down and touched the redness of his blood with the
fingertips of his left hand. Lifting the salty fluid to his lips, he
tasted it, and laughed at the sudden flash of fear on Patch's face.
Suddenly, he flicked the blood left on his fingers at the cutthroat,
aiming for his eyes.

Patch cursed and leaped back. Conan circled to his left, then sprang,
his sword doing its steely dance. The one-eyed man stabbed at him with
the dagger as he swung his own sharp blade, but the brigand's defenses
served him poorly. Patch left an opening. Conan took the offer. With a
yell the big Cimmerian drove his broadsword at Patch, as he would a
spear. The point took the would-be assassin just under the breastbone,
slicing through his heart and out his back, between two vertebrae.

"D-d-damn you!" Patch managed as he fell.

With a powerful contraction of his upper back and shoulder, Conan
jerked his blade free of the dying man. Turning his attention away from
Patch, he spun, looking for the woman who had bewitched him.

She was gone.

The innlord had removed the body and replaced the bloody bed upon which
it had finally fallen, being careful to keep his eyes respectful when
he chanced to gaze at the Cimmerian. Conan offered the man a silver
coin for his effort-his last such coin-with instructions to keep the
Senate's Deputation at bay for a few hours. After that he would be
gone, and they could whistle for him.

As he cleaned his blade and honed the nicks in its edge, Conan
considered the attack. It was unfortunate that he and the woman had
been unable to complete their liaison before One-eye had interrupted.
The man's appearance had certainly been a surprise; more, the woman had
seemed surprised as well. If that were true, then perhaps the slain
cutthroat had not been associated with her after all. Strange.

Of course, she had enspelled him somehow. That foulstinking smoke, most
likely. But if she were not part of the plot to slay him, then-who was
she? Stranger and stranger. Some of the stink remained in his nostrils,
and he felt the smell was less of the vapor and more associated with
the reek of magic he so distrusted. This was no place for a man of
honor wrapped in some mystical web peopled with magicians, demons, and
witches. The sooner he was shut of this business, the better. On the
morrow, all things going as planned, he would ride from the west gate
of Mornstadinos. Then all he would have to worry about would be an evil
magician ensconced in a castle.

Conan shook his head, and continued to clean his blade.

Djuvula sat in her chamber full of black rage. Who had that one-eyed
fool been? He had spoken of taking the barbarian alive, therefore he
had been in the employ of someone else. Who? Who dared to interfere
with her in this manner'? The person responsible would be most unhappy
when Djuvula found out. Most unhappy.

Loganaro shook his head as he stared at Patch's corpse. The fool had
paid for his arrogance in thinking he could take the barbarian alone.
Now what was he going to do?

Sovartus waved one hand at Djavul. "Go and find the girl and this
greater-than-ordinary man who guards her," he said. "I shall contact
you when I am ready."

"By your leave," Djavul grated. And he disappeared.

In the dining room of his palace Lemparius declined other than dabbling
with his food. He would, he reasoned with a smile, eat something later
in the evening. Something-or someone . . . .


Chapter Eleven

Mornstadinos lay deep in night's embrace when finally Conan approached
the wall surrounding the estate of Lemparius, Center Strand of the
Senate's Treble Whip. The Cimmerian moved easily despite the bound cut
upon his thigh. The wound was shallow, and it caused him little
concern; he had suffered much worse and survived. The man who had
inflicted the injury no longer walked in the land of the living, and
the slight pain Conan felt from his limb was small enough coin to pay
for that privilege.

The wall was of smooth stones, set in an adobe mortar and covered with
more of the claylike mud; in height, the wall was easily thrice Conan's
own span. The tall youth grinned. Child's play, he thought, looking at
the cracks in the adobe. To an ordinary man the wall might appear
smooth; to a Cimmerian there might as well have been a ladder scaling
the side. If Lemparius depended upon this wall for his primary
protection, the man prepared himself ill for unsolicited night
visitors.

It was but the work of a few moments for Conan to spider his way up the
wall. At the top, shards of broken pottery had been set, along with
splinters of rock. Were a climber fool enough to throw himself upon
these jagged edges, certainly he could do himself injury. Conan laughed
softly. Anyone adept enough to climb the wall was also likely to be
adept enough to bypass the ragged points set in the top. He did so
easily, undaunted by such small precautions on the part of the builder.
He worked his way down the inner wall until he reached his own height
from the ground, then dropped, landing lightly for such a big man. Easy
enough.

The palace stood a hundred paces away. Perhaps palace was too
pretentious a word, Conan thought. Certainly, the manse was large, but
it seemed less than imposing when compared to some of the structures he
had seen in Shadizar. No comparison could be made with the destroyed
Tower of the Elephant in Arenjun, to be certain; still, if the place
held that which he sought, that would be enough.

The manse, too, was of adobe over stone, with gaps where the overlay
had sloughed away to reveal the rock. Conan saw there was no moat;
neither did there seem to be watch animals, dogs, or birds. He thought
the last a bit strange; he had come prepared for either, with drugged
meat and grain in a small sack tied to his belt.

Conan approached the house boldly, hoping to confuse any guards who
might see him. If seen, he would try to get close enough to knock the
guard senseless before alarm could be raised.

No guards materialized from dark recesses, however. Nor did Conan see
any signs of guardhouses or posts. He shook his head, starlight
gleaming from his blue eyes. This Lemparius was a gift from Bel to
thieves, he thought. A wonder there stood no sign proclaiming
invitation to steal.

Despite the ease of his entrance so far, he remained cautious. He was
tempted to simply stride to the front entrance and enter the manse that
way, but he decided against such audacity. Best not to press his luck;
a window would do just as well.

From the ease of his work so far, Conan expected the window to be
unlatched; he was not disappointed. The shutters swung wide easily,
allowing him to clamber inside the building. Inside, he found himself
in a storeroom laden with fowl hung to ripen for future meals, lit
dimly by tapers in the hall beyond. He moved among the dangling
carcasses gracefully, avoiding contact with the pungent flesh. He
peered out into the hall.

Once again the young Cimmerian grinned widely. Empty. This was too
easy. He began to relax. Such a man as owned this place deserved to be
robbed; surely he must be swimming in arrogance?

He walked down the hallway, keeping to the edges of his booted feet for
silence. Such a precaution was automatic, and not one apt to be relaxed
simply because of one easy bit of theft.

The hall led past a large room with a steaming bath centered on it,
sunk into the floor. Wisps of vapor rose to condense on the walls, and
drops of moisture ran down to form small pools upon the floor. But
where were the inhabitants of this place'? Could it be that everyone
slept, without even a single guard? Such lunacy!

He moved past several rooms with doors ajar. He saw expensive furniture
and rugs in some; paintings and statues in others; still others held
mechanical devices, the purposes of which he could not immediately
discern.

Finally, the Cimmerian came to a locked door. He grinned. About time.
He bent to examine the lock, and his grin increased. Such a lock would
not stymie a child bent on entering the room. And Conan was no child.
He pulled his dagger and worked the point between the door's edge and
the jamb. A simple twist of the blade freed the bolt from its recess;
the door swung inward easily.

He took a taper from the hall and held it before him as he moved into
the room. He stopped suddenly, and sucked in a quick breath. Crom!

The light from the flickering taper revealed a treasure room. There
were gold statuettes, mostly of cats, set with precious stones; ivory
tusks inlaid with spirals of gold and silver lay piled in a heap;
plateware and soft leather bags-no doubt filled with coins-seemed
scattered everywhere.

Here, then, was his goal. Conan shut the door behind him softly and
held the taper high. Past thievery had taught him to take those things
most easily converted to ready coin, and, since there seemed to be bags
of coins among all the other richery of this room, best he should take
advantage of such. Of course, were there jewels filling some of those
leathern sacks, why, it would be foolish to bypass them. There was,
however, no point in being greedy. A few hundred pieces of gold and a
queen's ransom in precious stones should be sufficient for his needs.
He suppressed a laugh. A pity he had not brought a cart; so poor was
the security, he was certain he could have loaded a wagon and driven
away unseen.

The Cimmerian bent to begin examining the potential loot. Here was a
bag of gold solons, hefty and fat; there, a small sack of fine
emeralds, cut in rectangular fashion. He put the precious green stones
into his own purse. The next bag contained perhaps sixty pieces of
silver; reluctantly, he discarded these. Too heavy and not enough
value, silver, compared to all this other wealth.

Using a large leather pouch, he loaded enough gold coins so that the
triple-stitched leather threatened to tear with the weight. It was all
the Cimmerian could do to keep from laughing. Not only would he travel
to Nemedia in style, he would arrive a rich man. Why, they could hire
an army to besiege the magician who held Eldia's sister. Or buy wizards
of their own.

As he started to leave, Conan paused. There was a device sitting upon a
pedestal of carved ivory near the door; he had missed it upon his
entrance. He paused to look at this object. It was of gold, or,
perhaps, brass, and resembled nothing so much as a ball within a cube.
There was, however, some kind of distortion in the construction;
something he could not quite put his finger upon seemed wrong. Because
of the position of the device upon the stand, he figured the
construction must be quite valuable. He considered taking the object,
then shrugged. No, he had enough. A good thief knew when to quit. He
turned away.

"A wise choice," came a male voice. "Since you obviously do not know
what the storora is or what it does. It would be wasted upon you."

Before the voice finished, Conan was already moving. He spun to face
the source of the sound, pulling his sword with his right hand, even as
he clutched tightly the bag of gold with his left. The taper he had
held fell and was extinguished. The room filled with darkness, a
tenebrous shroud in which the young Cimmerian could see nothing. Good.
If he were blind, then so would his opponent be.

The voice, when it came, was mocking. "If you think to lose me so
easily, you are mistaken. I see you there, doomed thief."

Such was unlikely, Conan thought as he marked the position of the
voice. He edged toward the speaker, sword leading.

"No, you shall not find me so easily, outlander." This came from a new
position in the room, to Conan's left. He twisted to face it. His eyes
had adjusted somewhat to the gloom; there seemed to be a slightly
blacker blob against the darkness just ahead, though he could not be
certain. The only light came from a crack beneath the closed doorway,
and such was only a faint glimmer.

"You must certainly be an outlander," the man said, "for no resident of
Mornstadinos would be so slackwitted as to try robbing the house of
Lemparius." He had moved again.

Conan considered his options. Here was a man who seemed to move much
better in the dark than he had any right to; more, he had managed to
sneak up on him without being heard. The young Cimmerian had his loot
and had marked the door by the light-bearing gap beneath it. A
successful thief is one who escapes with his booty, and that was his
purpose. Time to leave.

Conan sprang for the door.

Even as he moved, Conan saw something pass in front of the light,
forming two dark thick lines. A man's feet, he reckoned. And, if those
feet bore the owner of the voice, they belonged to a man with
supernatural speed, to have moved from his former position in that
short time. Even as he thought this he swung his sword, to bisect the
still-invisible figure. But the feet blocking the light vanished and
his blade cut only air.

"You are quick, for a fool," said the voice. "Not that such shall save
you."

Conan did not waste his breath in answering. Instead, he waved his
sword back and forth as he backed toward the door, whipping the steel
so that it sang in the darkness. Let the hidden speaker try to pass
that barrier!

Conan reached the door, felt the handle touch his back, and considered
his next move. This might be tricky. He dared not turn and expose his
back to the man in the blackness. Opening the door with the sack of
gold weighing his hand would be difficult, but not impossible. And
there was the matter of possible confederates lurking in the hallway,
awaiting his exit.

He shook his head. Too much to think about. A man could die of old age
worrying about possibilities! He caught the latch, jerked it up, and
pulled the door open as he moved away. Then the Cimmerian turned and
leaped into the hallway.

And found himself alone. Conan laughed, and began to sprint down the
taper-lit hallway. He heard a noise behind him and he glanced back, but
saw nothing. He had only to make another turning in the hall and he
would be nearly to the storeroom where he had entered the house. Once
outside, he would make for the gate; it would be faster than climbing
the wall. He was all but free.

He rounded the corner of the hallway, saw what lay before him, and
uttered a curse. He slid to a stop, his powerful chest working to pump
more air to his lungs.

At the end of the hallway, blocking his exit, stood a dozen men armed
with pikes and swords. He would not be leaving that way. He turned and
ran back in the direction from which he had only just come. Better to
meet the one man from the darkness than a dozen armed troops, he
figured. Especially now that he had the lighted hallway on his side. As
he rounded the corner again the young Cimmerian noted that the men did
not follow him. For some reason this worried him more than if they had.

Standing alone, thirty paces ahead, stood a single figure. The man was
tall and blond-haired, with fair skin. In his hand he held only a
curved knife, no sword, and he looked too relaxed to be expecting
battle.

Briefly, Conan considered running the man down, not slowing, using his
sword to sweep the figure aside. Something in the man's demeanor,
however, caused the Cimmerian to slow, first to a trot, then a walk.
Finally, he stopped three paces away, and stared at the man blocking
his escape. There was a danger here, something unnatural, and Conan
felt the hairs on his neck prickle and rise as he beheld the man.

"So, you are less stupid than you appear," the man said. "Not much,
perhaps, but some. Allow me to introduce myself: I am Lemparius,
senator, and master of this house you thought to rob. What say you to
that, thief?"

"Stand aside," Conan said, his voice almost a growl. "I have no
particular desire to slay you."

Lemparius laughed, a high giggle. "Oh, the richness of this." He
twirled the fang-shaped knife he bore into the air and caught it
neatly. He looked at the massive youth's sword disdainfully. "Come and
pass me, outland fool. If you can, you shall live; if not, your corpse
will gather flies before the morning sun breaks."

Conan moved. He leaped at Lemparius, slashing powerfully with his
razor-edged broadsword. The sinews of his arms bunched as he swung the
steel. Had it connected. the blade would have sheared the senator in
half-had it connected. The senator moved, catlike, and Conan's strike
missed cleanly. With a motion too fast for Conan to accept, Lemparius
darted past and laid his curved knife across the bigger man's forearm.
It was almost a gentle touch, but it drew blood, a thin line the length
of Conan's middle finger. The senator laughed as he stroked Conan with
his knife.

Conan swung the weighty sack of gold hard. The move was unexpected by
the senator, for the heavy coins slammed into his ribs solidly,
knocking him sideways. Lemparius grunted and almost stumbled, but
managed to regain his balance. Once again he blocked Conan's exit.

"A good move," Lemparius said. "You are quicker than I thought." With
that, Lemparius took a deep breath and let out a piercing whistle.

The sound of sandals on the stone floor began, then increased, behind
Conan, and the pikemen approached.

"If you have gods, best you make your peace with them," Lemparius said.
"And quickly."

The Cimmerian dropped the bag of gold and brought his left hand over to
join his right upon the haft of the broadsword. Fast Lemparius might
be, but whether he could block with his funny knife a two-handed swing
with Conan's full might behind it remained to be seen. Conan lunged
forward and chopped at the other man, his sword moving so fast, it was
little more than a shiny blur.

Lemparius gave ground. He skittered back, and tried to counterattack
once Conan's stroke missed. But Conan's own recovery was too fast, and
Lemparius was driven back yet again. Conan began to think he would be
able to drive the man before him quickly enough to escape the men
rapidly approaching from behind. He moved as a man reaping grain, using
short, rapid swings of his sword to push his opponent back.

While taking several of his scurrying steps backward, Lemparius
slipped. The senator's feet shot out from under him and he sprawled
suddenly, flat upon his back. The look of surprise upon his face at
that moment was worth the sack of gold to Conan. He raised his blade.

At that instant his hope of escape was dealt a shattering blow. From
the hallway behind Lemparius at least another dozen pike- and swordsmen
appeared, running toward the Cimmerian. He was boxed!

Conan turned. The treasure room door was between him and the first
group of troops. If he could get there, perhaps he could block the door
from inside; perhaps there was another way out. Perhaps not, but he had
little choice. If there were no other exit, then he would have more
space in which to swing his blade at least. He would take as many of
them with him as he could; Crom would appreciate his entry into the
gray lands more were he preceded by a dozen or so of his enemies,
dispatched there personally by his hand.

"Yield!" one of the pikemen yelled.

"I am Conan of Cimmeria. I yield to no man!"

In the periphery of his sight Conan saw Lemparius scramble back up to
his feet. "Conan?" the senator said. The question caused the big
Cimmerian to pause but an instant in wonder. That instant was enough to
allow the first of the first group of pikemen to come within jabbing
range. As the four-edged pike sought his face he slapped the shaft of
the weapon aside with his sword and completed the circular motion in a
downward slice. The pikeman screamed as the blade took him. His fellows
paused enough to give Conan a chance to leap at the door. The Cimmerian
gathered himself to spring.

"Conan! How wonderful!"

Puzzled, Conan half-turned to stare at Lemparius in wonder. His motion
allowed him to see the senator swinging the bag of gold Conan had
dropped just before that heavy bag crashed into his head. Blackness
reigned.


Chapter Twelve

Conan swam up from the depths of a pulsing red mist; as the mists grew
thinner, so his brain grew clearer. When he opened his eyes, the
Cimmerian's awareness was full. He lay in utter blackness, surrounded
by dank air and some foul stench. For a moment he could not imagine how
he had come to such a place; memory returned, however, and the sight of
Lemparius swinging the heavy bag of gold came to him.

He took stock. His head throbbed, but allowed him to sit up; his arm
bore a small cut, nothing to worry about; his leg was still a bit sore.
Carefully, he slid from the hard bench upon which he sat to stand
barefooted upon a cold floor. His sword was gone, as was most of his
clothing. He wore brief underbreeks, and above that his belt and purse,
nothing more. Conan opened the flap of his purse and reached inside.
Empty-no, wait, there was something . . . a stone it felt like, trapped
in a fold of his pouch. He retrieved the stone and held it close to his
face. There was no glimmer of light to sparkle from its contours, but
from its shape Conan knew what it was: One of the emeralds must have
fallen from the sack he had taken. Whoever had pent him in this Stygian
pit had missed the hidden stone when he removed the contents of Conan's
pouch.

He returned the emerald to its hiding place and closed the leathern
flap again. If he escaped, the jewel would be useful; until then, a
sword, dagger, or even a stick would be of more interest.

Exploration of the chamber in which he found himself took but a few
moments. Roughly square, the room extended no more than three armspans
in either direction. There stood on one end a massive wooden door,
bound with strips of rusted iron, judging by touch, securely bolted
from without. He found no hinges; therefore, the door opened outward.
He set his bare feet as solidly as was possible upon the damp
flagstones, and put his big hands against the rough wood. Using all his
strength, the powerful Cimmerian shoved.

The door might as well have been the side of a mountain for all it
yielded. He backed away so that only the fingertips of one hand
remained in contact with the door. He gathered his energies and jumped,
slamming into the wooden barrier with his tensed shoulder, itself
seeming no softer than the door when he connected. The door remained
firm.

Conan took a deep breath, and his fists knotted unbidden into hammers.
He was truly captured. He wanted to rage and pound upon the door for
release, but he held his temper. Such a display would be foolish, and a
waste of strength.

Instead, the brawny Cimmerian walked back to the platform upon which he
had but recently awakened. He moved easily now in the darkness, as the
dimensions of the cell were graven upon his consciousness. He sat upon
the platform and leaned back against the wall, to wait.

The time that passed while Conan waited was but small, no more than an
hour. A cavalcade of footsteps echoed down a hallway outside the
Cimmerian's cell; moments after he heard them, the door swung open. He
held his pose, eyes slitted against the influx of torchlight that
splashed into the small room. At least a dozen torches he saw, held by
that many well-armed men. It would be foolish to think of attacking
them barehanded.

Lemparius the Senator strode into the cell. "So," he said, "you have
finally awakened from your swoon. Good. I thought perhaps I might have
struck too hard. Not that it matters, after all-it is not your brain
which endears you to me, Conan of wherever." Lemparius smiled. "Is not
life strange? I sought to collect you, but you avoided such, dancing
away like a flirtatious demi-vierge; now, now, you have come to me on
your own. Find you that not amusing?"

Conan said nothing.

"Oh, dear. I hope I have not struck away your voice with my golden
club."

Conan glared at him. "So, it was you who sent that pack of cutthroats
against me during the windstorm." It was not a question.

"Indeed." Lemparius's smile never faltered.

"You should look to your help-they were ill-chosen fools."

"It matters not, for you are now here, and mine. It is the end which is
important, barbar."

Conan nodded. That was true enough. He still breathed, was still sound
of wind and limb; this was not yet ended.

"Surely, you wish to know why I have gone to such lengths to obtain
your company?" Lemparius raised an eyebrow.

"Not particularly." He would not give his tormentor the satisfaction of
seeing him curious.

The senator's smile dwindled slightly. "No? You do not care to know
your fate, Conan of Barbaria? To know how you will spend the final
moments of your existence?"

Conan measured the distance between himself and the man with a
practiced eye. Likely, he could reach him before he was speared by
Lemparius's cohort. But the man was devilishly fast; if he could lure
Lemparius a step closer, he would have a better chance.

Conan said, "I care only that the stench of my pen increased tenfold by
your entrance, dog. Perhaps it is your diet of dung which offends me."

Lemparius's smile disappeared, replaced by a scowl. He made as if to
step forward toward Conan. The Cimmerian shifted his weight slightly on
the bench, preparing himself to move quickly.

Lemparius stopped, and smiled again. "Ah, am I a halfwit that I would
allow myself to be tricked by such a simple ruse? Think again, barbar.
And observe." Lemparius waved his hand. A man came forward, to stand
near the senator. Conan had not seen him, previously hidden behind the
glare of the torches. The man bore a cocked crossbow, and the barbed
head of the quarrel was aimed directly at Conan's heart. Lemparius
waved again, and a second man, armed like the first, came to stand on
the opposite side. The cell was becoming crowded, Conan thought.

"Dalius here, to my left, is master of the arbalest, the finest
marksman in all of Corinthia. He can pin a moving butterfly to a wall
at ten paces. At this range I need merely call 'left' or 'right' and
that would be the eye the bolt would skewer, pinning your head to the
wall behind you."

Lemparius waited a moment for that to sink in, then nodded to the
second crossbowman. "Karlinos came to me from Brythunia, where he was
the best with his weapon. While not quite the marksman Dalius is, he is
second to none other-your remaining eye would be transfixed by his bolt
before the first quarrel fully emerged."

Conan relaxed against the wall. As he did so, he laughed loudly.

That Lemparius had gone to great lengths to capture him alive was
apparent. While he knew not what plans the man had for him, he felt
certain that death was not among them. Not just yet, anyway.

There came a female voice from behind the ranks of men. "He is the
one."

With the voice came a scent of an exotic perfume. The smell and voice
triggered the memory of where Conan had known them before-in his room
at the inn! It was the woman who had bewitched him. By Crom, what was
afoot here?

Lemparius turned slightly toward the sound of the woman's voice; Conan
saw his chance. He gambled that the crossbowmen would not fire without
a direct order. With hard contractions of his powerful frame Conan
lunged. He had no real hope of killing Lemparius barehanded before he
was clubbed down, but the satisfaction of landing one blow would be
worth the effort. So Conan kicked, and the instep of his bare foot flew
between Lemparius's legs and smacked solidly into his groin. The man
grunted and went dead-white, all Conan had time to see before he was
once again sent to the land of throbbing mists.

"-shall cut his heart out myself!"

"Nay, he is mine now; you have given him to me."

Conan's sight had not yet returned, but his hearing was not lacking. He
would have leaped up, save that he realized several things at once. He
was no longer on the bench in the stinking cell, but rather on a soft
cushion. He might possibly overhear something of use, did they still
think him unconscious. And he was bound hand and foot with soft yet
tight straps. So the Cimmerian feigned sleep and listened.

"-came you by him?" That was the voice of the woman; Djuvula, the
senator had called her.

"Ah, I was . . . approached by a free agent, a scurrilous fellow named
Loganaro. He offered to sell me the barbarian for a goodly sum." That
from Lemparius. And that name-where had he heard it? Loganaro . . . ah,
yes, the fat man he had met in the nameless inn at the opposite foot of
the Karpash Mountains.

Djuvula said, "Why should he do this? Of what use could a barbar be to
you?" Conan could not see the woman's face, but her voice fairly
dripped with anger.

"Why, none, normally; however, Loganaro mentioned that you had some
interest in such a man. I sought only to detain him for you. As a
favor."

"As a favor. I see. And what might you expect in return for this . . .
favor?"

"Dear Djuvula, let us not speak to each other as merchants, of trading
this for that. You owe me nothing for this barbarian lout, not a
thing."

There was a pause, in which Conan debated opening his eyes a mere slit.
He decided to do so, but this only afforded him a view of some silken
pink cushion, which blocked the speakers from his line of sight. He
would have to move, and that might not be wise just yet. He strained
against his bonds. but they held firm.

Lemparius continued speaking. "I would have things as they were between
us before, dear lady."

"You know such is impossible. I no longer engage in . . . those kinds
of relations with ordinary menfolk."

"Ah. but I have changed, Djuvula. I am more than I was."

The woman laughed. "Surely you do not think my mantology so poor that I
would not have noted the addition of your . . . change.'"

"Certainly. I meant no such slur upon your powers of divination, dear
one. I merely meant that with my enhanced energies, I have a certain .
. . vitality I lacked previously."

Djuvula laughed again. "Not so much as my Prince, I would wager."

"Perhaps. On the other hand, there is something to be said for
technique over mere staying power, is there not?" Lemparius's voice
grew quieter. "I could keep you satisfied, lady. I know I could, given
the chance."

"I have known such men as you have become, Lemparius. l suspect you
boast beyond your capabilities."

"A chance, then. Surely, you have nothing to lose in granting me an
opportunity to demonstrate my . . . capabilities? Should I fail. you
would still have the clutter-muscled boy for your simulacrum. And
if-nay, not 'if,' but 'when'-l succeed. why there will be no need of
your Prince."

Another pause, this time of greater length. Conan sought to shift his
body ever so slightly, so that he might see. but the cushion must have
been as thick as a horse; it still blocked his vision with its
pinkness!

"There is some merit in what you say, Lemparius," Djuvula said. "Very
well. Demonstrate your newfound prowess."

"Here? Now?"

"Why not? Your men have battered the barbarian well enough so that he
might sleep for a day; if he should wake, I would not be bothered by
his watching. Unless you have scruples about such things?"

Lemparius laughed, but it sounded strained to Conan. "Hardly," he said.
"All right, then."

There came a rustle of clothing to Conan's sharp ears; he took the
opportunity to shift a bit more on the cushions. Now he could see a bit
of high ceiling and a wooden post; likely this post was part of some
fancy bed upon which Conan lay trussed. Well, at least his hands were
bound in front of his body, where he could get his teeth at the straps.
He brought his hands toward his face very carefully and slowly, until
the silken bindings were at his lips. He began to gnaw at the material,
which tasted of dye. It would take some time to chew through, he knew.

"Set take this cursed barbarian!" Lemparius said loudly.

"Some problem, Lemparius?" Djuvula's voice dripped with the sweetness
of a beehive in spring.

"You can see very well there is! I am injured! That oaf kicked me! I-I
feel a terrible pain when I try to-"

"A pity," Djuvula cut in. "So much for your vitality-"

"Hardly a fair test, Djuvula! You must give me time to recover from my
injury!"

"Must I?" The woman laughed. "Well, I suppose I can wait a few more
days before animating my Prince of the Lance. I shall allow three
evenings, Lemparius. Perhaps the barbarian can keep me entertained
until then."

"You mock me!"

"Nay, Lemparius. I would not trouble to do so; I merely please myself.
The barbarian is a brave man, truly, and it is his heart I shall have,
living in the chest of my Prince. Meanwhile, I generously give you and
him three days."

Conan had heard enough. He was to be sacrificed in some foul rite of
magic! Abruptly, he sat up, and found himself seated on a bed next to a
dead or unconscious black-skinned man of heroic proportions.

Lemparius and Djuvula lay on cushions near the bed. Both were
unclothed. They turned to stare at Conan.

Conan brought his hands up in front of his face. He took a deep breath
and expended it in a deep guttural yell. At the same time the young
giant strained against the partially severed bonds on his wrists.
Muscles rippled in his shoulders and back; sinews crackled and raised
on his arms as he concentrated his entire being upon the straps binding
him. Suddenly, the material gave way. There came a muffled snap, and
his hands were free.

Lemparius cursed, leaped up, and scrabbled among his clothes for his
knife. He found the curved weapon, jerked it from its scabbard, and
turned toward the Cimmerian.

Conan grabbed up the silken cushion nearest his hand and flung it at
Lemparius. It was soft, the cushion, but solid and thick. The pillow
flew past Lemparius's startled slash with the knife and knocked him
backward. He stumbled and fell, landing smack upon his bare backside.

Wasting no time, Conan bent and tore the lashing from his ankles. As he
finished he looked up, to see Lemparius recovered from his fall,
already up and moving.

Conan sprang to meet Lemparius's charge. Fast the man might be, but
Conan was not slow; in an eyeblink the Cimmerian locked his powerful
hands around the wrists of the senator. Conan turned his hip into the
knee thrust at his groin, was met with the senator's hip when he sought
to bring his own knee into contact with the man's already-tender
scrotal parts. The two men fell, still locked together. Conan was the
stronger, he knew, and it would be but a matter of a few moments for
him to overcome the other man.

The thin hair of Lemparius's wrists began to writhe under Conan's
palms. And some trick of the light made the straining senator seem
suddenly plastic-featured; his face seemed somehow to be sinking . . .
.

Crom! The man was no longer a man. but becoming a great beast! Fangs
sprouted from his mouth, claws grew from his hands, and what had been
Senator Lemparius now growled and tried to bite off Conan's face.

He cursed and flung the half-man, half-cat away from him, using the
thick muscles of his chest and arms to their fullest. The beast flew
across the room to slam into the wall.

A werepanther! Conan knew there were men who wore such guises to become
wolves, but he had never heard of one who became a cat. He did not like
his chances against such an unnatural creature with only his bare
hands. And it was said that human weapons could not harm a wereman. It
would not have helped if he had a sword, which he did not.

The panther rebounded from the wall and landed upon its feet. It turned
and snarled, a throaty roar that sounded all too loud in the closed
room. Slowly, the beast began to pad toward Conan. He would swear the
cat smiled as it moved.

A weapon, he needed a weapon! Conan looked around quickly, but there
was no-ah, wait! Lemparius's curved knife lay near Conan's bare foot.
He bent and snatched up the knife. Armed, he felt better.

"You must not kill him!" Djuvula screamed.

Conan glanced at her, but she spoke to the panther, not to him The cat
ignored the woman's imprecation. But when the Cimmerian extended the
wickedly curved knife toward him, the werepanther stopped his forward
padding and snarled.

Conan spared a glance from the beast for the knife. Perhaps since this
knife belonged to Lemparius, it might be more than it seemed. He might
damage the beast.

With Conan, the thought was oft as the deed; he leaped toward the
werepanther, slashing. The beast gave ground even as it struck out with
its own sharp claws, batting at him, but missing. The big Cimmerian saw
he was within a few steps of the door to the bedchamber. Time to
depart. He cut the curved knife through the air to keep the panther at
bay as he backed toward the exit. The beast snarled, but would not come
close enough to strike.

Conan gained the door, jerked it open, and started through the portal.
The cat made a desperate rush then, slashing at the Cimmerian's leg
with its right paw. Conan snapped the point of the sicklelike weapon
down hard, and buried the tip in the panther's foreleg. The unnatural
creature screamed and jerked its foreleg back, laying open the tawny
hide in a crimson gash. The panther retreated, screaming continuously,
and Conan slammed the brass-bound door upon the sight. He saw nothing
to stay him in the hallway in which he found himself, and so he fled,
running like a man pursued by demons.

He did not look back.


Chapter Thirteen

Lemparius had departed to rally his minions. Djuvula sat alone in her
chamber, staring at the inert form of her Prince. That she was furious
did not begin to describe her black rage. Lemparius was a fool to think
his wereman cloak would enhance either his anatomy or performance to
majuscule proportions; worse, he had allowed her beautiful barbarian to
escape! He would pay for that.

Then there stood the matter of Loganaro, free agent and betrayer. His
proffered barbarian and Conan were one and the same, and the fat toad
had sold him to her would-be consort. Now, there was a man who was
going to pay for a moron's mistake, and do it twisting slowly as well.
The man who had sliced the hand from her demon-brother was without her
grasp, and Djuvula needed small excuse to seek a target upon which to
spend her anger.

Purple haze smote the air of her chamber within a yellow flash of
tainted light. Well, well. Look who chose that moment to arrive.

Djavul bent to avoid hitting his head upon the ceiling.

"Sister," he grated, "I sense that you have captured my quarry."

Djavula laughed. "Oh, 'tis hardly better you come late than never,
half-brother."

"Speak clearly, woman!"

"He is escaped, your hand-chopping barbarian. Due to an inept senator
who fancies himself a kind of master swordsman."

"I shall have his skull for a soup bowl!"

"Nay, brother, he belongs to me. And I shall have little trouble in
locating our mutual prey, for I have his clothes and sword at my beck.
I will cast the proper spells for you to locate him exactly-provided
you return him to me before you exact your vengeance."

"You would bargain with me, sister?"

"Nay, I say again. You may do what you will with the man, so long as I
can remove his heart from his still-living form. "

Djavul laughed. "So, you still seek to make yourself a new toy?" The
demon nodded toward the form on Djuvula's bed. "I could easily summon
better from the Depths for you, sister. Why, I would even undertake
your pleasures myself-"

"Thank you, no," Djuvula said. "I'll not put myself into the thrall of
a demon-lover, no matter how adept. The price would be more than I
would care to pay."

Djavul chuckled. "Aye, were I you, I, too, would likely refuse such an
offer; still, there is no harm in trying, is there?"

"I would expect no less of you, brother. But bide a moment; I have
spells to produce . . . ."

Vitarius looked up, startled, as Conan stormed into the room. "Where
have you been?" the old mage asked. "We expected you this morning-"

"Never mind, I shall explain later. Are we supplied? Ready to travel?"

"Aye. Eldia and her sister are waiting at the provisioner's; I thought
it best to wait here for you-"

"Then let us depart, Vitarius. Now."

"You have acquired sufficient funds . . . ?"

"We must be on our way, old man. No time to tarry. There was some . . .
trouble during my venture. It would be best to clear the city gates
quickly."

There were four horses, saddles of fair quality for each animal, and a
pack beast tethered at a post in one of the twisted alleys Conan was
coming to hate. Eldia and Kinna stood nearby. The older sister had
obtained a thick brassbound staff, her own height in length. It was
Kinna who spoke first when she saw the Cimmerian and the White magician
approaching.

"Conan! Where are your clothes?"

"I was hot," he replied.

The woman seemed as if she might inquire further, but apparently
thought better of it, for she spoke no more. Conan strode past her and
into the provisioner's shop.

The owner of the establishment was a swarthy man of small frame, with a
gold tooth gleaming in the rays of the afternoon sun, allowed inside by
a large window. He exposed the tooth hesitantly at the sight of the big
man moving toward him.

"I need a sword," Conan said, "something with heft and length. And a
cloak."

"I have a stock of both," Gold-tooth replied. "And breeches, tunics,
boots-"

"Aye, boots."

The proprietor led Conan to a second room, filled with supplies. Conan
tried on several pairs of boots, but found none large enough. He
settled for some thick-soled sandals with leg lashings; they would do
well enough, since he was riding and not walking. A well-spun cloak,
dyed indigo, was draped over his shoulders, and he nodded. It would
suffice. Finally, he chose a sword. He found a double-edged blade as
long as the distance between his outstretched fingertips and the middle
of his chest. The handle was more ornate than he liked, but the steel
seemed sound, and the edges were of sufficient sharpness to shave hair
from the back of one hand. He would rather have had his own broadsword,
but this one would have to do.

"A wise choice," Gold-tooth said. "The steel is of the many-folds
variety, brought all the way from Turan."

"Do you know gems?" Conan asked.

"Why, certainly. I am passing familiar with-"

"Examine this, then." Conan dug into his belt purse and produced the
single emerald remaining from the booty he had attempted to remove from
Lemparius's household. He flipped the stone at the man's face.

Gold-tooth deftly picked the jewel from the air. He held it up to the
light and squinted at the emerald. From his jacket he produced an
eyeglass, and used the instrument to peer at the stone. Conan saw the
man's eyes widen at the sight of the emerald.

"Well?"

"It-ah-has some value," Gold-tooth said. From the way he spoke, Conan
thought the man's mouth had gone dry.

"Enough to pay for our supplies?"

The merchant started to smile, stopped, then turned the expression into
a frown. "It-ah-would go some way as payment, yes. Perhaps . . . half,
I would think."

Conan had dealt with men such as Gold-tooth; they would lie to their
own mothers without a second thought, especially when matters of money
were in question.

"In Zamora," Conan began, "such a precious stone would buy a dozen
horses and five times the supplies you have furnished."

Gold-tooth's eyes narrowed, but his voice remained bland. "Perhaps it
is so; however, this is not Zamora. Perhaps I might allow
three-quarters of the debt for this-ah-bauble."

Conan shook his head, and his blue eyes sent a penetrating gaze at the
small man. "I have not the time to play bargaining games with you. You
shall have the stone for our supplies; speak no more about it."

"Oh? It seems to me that I hold the upper hand here, outlander. I can
choose not to trade." Despite his words, he maintained his hold on the
emerald, greed showing in his face.

Conan pulled his new sword from its stiff leathern sheath and aimed the
point of the blade at Gold-tooth's throat. "No more of your unctuous
babble, merchant! Accept the trade and live. Refuse at your peril!"

"I-ah-have-ah-men I can call!" Gold-tooth's voice trembled. He licked
his lips, flashing his tooth at Conan.

"Do," Conan said. "Such would make my day. A thick coat of blood upon
your stock would no doubt improve its appearance. Call your men."

Gold-tooth swallowed dryly, and licked his lips again. "I find
that-ah-I am willing to accept the loss on-ah-the trade as you
suggest-in the interests of maintaining-ah-good market relations."

Conan grinned. "I thought you might see it so." He turned and walked
quickly from the room, his cape flaring behind him. He found Vitarius
and the sisters awaiting him.

"Mount," Conan commanded. "It is time we departed this rabbit warren."

Lemparius waved his left arm at his men and yelled loudly in his anger.
"Fifty solons to the man who brings me the barbar! Breathing. And slow
torture to the man responsible if the barbarian dies before I see him
again."

A hundred men stared at the senator, nodding. None spoke.

"Go. I will not have him escape!"

The deputies left the courtyard at a double-time pace, accompanied by
Lemparius's curses. His left fist clenched tightly, but not his
right-that arm was securely bandaged and strapped to his body,
protection for the wound which ran from elbow to wrist in length, and
to the bone. Had such a wound been inflicted by an ordinary weapon, it
would already have been healed; since the cut was made by his own
saber-tooth knife, which bore a cat-enchantment, it would fare as any
normal man's surgery.

Damn the barbarian! He would learn the meaning of pain once he was
returned. Djuvula would have no need of his heart, of that Lemparius
was certain-he could fill her needs. But Conan owed him for this
injury.

Loganaro was close to panic. The barbarian and his party were leaving,
an idiot could see that. How was he to stop them? The thought of facing
Lemparius made the fat agent shudder. On the other hand, the idea of
trying to stand against the truculent barbarian also had little appeal.

The four mounted their horses as Loganaro watched. By Yama, he could
not simply allow them to leave! He must delay them somehow, must invent
some story that would keep the barbarian in Mornstadinos until he could
gather help.

With that thought Loganaro ran forward, mind working frantically.
"Sir," he called, "delay a moment! You remember me, don't you? I am
Loganaro, we met in the village-" He stopped and gawked at Conan. Two
things he noticed at once: The barbarian was pulling his sword-a new
blade, from its look-and at his side he carried Lemparius's curved
knife, sheathless, through his belt!

Conan stared at the fat man, intending to behead him. But there were
people about; somebody might call the deputies, and he had enough to
worry about as it was. Then a thought struck him, and Conan smiled. He
sheathed his sword, recalling the conversation he had overheard while
pretending to be unconscious in the witch's bedchamber. "Nay, fat one,"
he said, "I shall not spit your carcass on my new steel. That would be
too merciful."

"Y-young sir, what can you mean? I have done you no harm-"

"Through no lack of trying, I'll wager. I see you recognize the knife I
carry."

"N-n-no, I've never seen it-"

"Its former owner is your master, cur. I speak of Lemparius, senator
and werepanther."

"Werepanther?"

"Ah, you did not know this? No matter. He is not your problem, doomed
one. There is a woman, a witch-"

"Djuvula!"

Conan smiled. "Aye, you know of her too. Well that you should, for she
wishes to make tripe of your guts."

"But-but-why?"

"Your former master gave you to her, dog. It seems the lady does not
care for your manner of changing alliances. In trying to serve two, you
have been abandoned by both."

"No!"

Conan laughed again. "Were I you, fat one, I would relocate my business
to another city. Or another country. And quickly."

Loganaro turned and sprinted away, uttering oaths as he ran. It was one
of the funniest things Conan had ever seen, and he laughed so hard, he
nearly was unhorsed.

Vitarius said, "I was not aware you knew such a subdolous weasel as
Loganaro, Conan."

Conan's laugh dwindled to a chuckle. "Only in passing," he said.

Vitarius led the way through the alleys and back streets toward the
west gate of Mornstadinos. Eldia and Kinna followed close behind, and
Conan brought up the rear, watching carefully for signs of pursuit. He
saw a group of five deputies once, but they were at cross-angles to his
path, moving away. Good.

The west gate was unguarded, save by a single man. This one leaned on
his pike, engaged in ribald conversation with a dark short-haired trull
with a heavily painted face. As Conan rode past the sentry, the man,
intent on arguing over the price the woman was asking for her favors,
did not even look up.

The sun was past the mid-afternoon point when the four rode unhampered
from Mornstadinos. Conan could hardly recall any place he was happier
to leave. Weighed against the double-dealing and intrigue of the
citizens he had encountered in Mornstadinos, an attack upon a wizard in
a magically fortified castle seemed almost an insignificant task.


Chapter Fourteen

Several hours out of Mornstadinos the party of four stopped to allow
their horses rest. Aside from themselves Conan had seen no other
travelers. The Corinthian road was empty.

Vitarius drank from a goatskin, splashing wine into his mouth until it
dribbled down his chin. He passed the skin to Conan, who filled his own
mouth several times, swallowing noisily.

Eldia and Kinna moved toward a thick stand of bushes. Conan called to
them. "Careful."

Kinna waved the staff she carried. "Do not worry. I can attend to the
rabbits and ground monks with this."

Vitarius said. "You had a story you were going to tell."

"Aye." Conan began to speak of his recent adventures. Shortly after he
had started, the women returned.

When he finished, Kinna shook her head. "It seems you live a life
charmed of the gods, Conan."

"Perhaps. I do not depend upon gods, however." He patted his sword with
one callused hand. "Steel is much better. A good sword acts as a man
demands and is as good as the man who wields it. Gods act for their own
reasons, and cannot be depended upon in times of danger."

"Think you that the senator will send pursuit?" Eldia asked.

The Cimmerian shrugged. "Possible. He has no love for me. If the
whoremonger at the gate recalls our passage, Lemparius might well
dispatch his minions our way. At the crest of the last hill I looked
back, but saw no dust along the road. If we are pursued, we have
several hours on them."

Kinna nodded.

"That will likely be the least of our worries," Vitarius said.
"Sovartus has set certain . . . wards upon the roads leading away from
Mornstadinos. We are five days ride from Dodligia Plain, upon which his
foul castle rests. Before then we must pass whatever guards he has
posted-not to mention the Bloddolk Forest."

"Bloddolk Forest?" the young Cimmerian repeated.

"Aye. A place of strange fauna and stranger flora. It lies away from
the Corinthian road, to the north, along a side path. We must travel
that way to reach Sovartus's domain. Not many men essay to ride that
path; of those who do, few return."

Conan shrugged. The forest was in the future, not something to worry
about now. "Best we resume riding," he said. "If men do follow, we are
gained upon as we sit."

The four mounted their horses and moved off.

Djuvula swayed, sweat drenching her naked form. She moaned once, and
clenched more tightly the clothing she held. Conan's clothing.

Djavul watched with interest, but without any stirring of carnal
passion for the unclothed woman. His interest lay in finding the savage
who had wounded him.

Djuvula collapsed. After a moment she arose, breathing deeply. She
walked to where she had hung her robe, donned the garment, then turned
toward her demon half-brother. "He rides the Corinthian road," she
said. "With the girl and the others. They are half a day out."

Djavul nodded. "Good. I shall go and find them."

"Carefully, brother. They are no less than they were the last time you
confronted them."

Djavul waved his injured arm. Already at the stump a new growth could
be seen, the outline of tiny fingers. "I have learned some caution in
dealing with the Fire-child. I shall bide my time until an opportune
moment presents itself."

"See that you do. And remember, I want the barbarian's living heart-I
care not for what shape the rest of him might be in."

Djavul grinned; slime dripped from his fangs. "You shall have it,
sister dear. He will hardly have any use for it after I am done with
him."

Djavul vanished amid his booming- bruise of color.

Three days after the barbarian's escape from her chamber, Djuvula had a
visitor, or, rather, two visitors. One was Lemparius; the other,
Loganaro.

The senator shoved the fat man into the room before him. Loganaro's
hands were bound, and his pasty face was stained with sweat and fear.

"A present for you, dear one," Lemparius said.

Djuvula smiled, showing even white teeth. "Why, Lemparius, how
delightful! He's just what I wanted."

"Ah, good. I thought it might be so. And there is the matter of
something I wanted as well, lady."

Djuvula's smiled increased. "I recall. What of your . . . injuries?"

"The . . . first is healed. The cut nearly so-I have had it stitched
with saber-cat mane hair."

"Come into my bedchamber, then. Loganaro will wait for us here, won't
you?"

Loganaro was too frightened to speak; he merely nodded dumbly.

Djuvula took Lemparius by the arm and led him into her chamber.

A long time passed, it seemed to Loganaro. Small cries occasionally
issued forth from the bedchamber, but Loganaro knew these sounds were
not those of pain.

After what seemed like years-hours, certainly-the chamber door opened,
and Lemparius stumbled out. He looked as if he had been embattled; his
face was flushed, his naked form was covered with sweat, and he moved
as might a man twice his age. After a moment Djuvula followed the
senator into the antechamber. She, too, was nude.

"Come, Lemparius." she said, "we have only begun."

Lemparius shook his head. "Nay, woman. l am finished. I can do no
more."

"What of your enhancement?" Her voice was as sweet as that of a young
virgin nun. Loganaro swallowed dryly. He had no desire to be party to
this.

"Do not mock me, woman! No man could do better!"

"You deceive yourself. Many have done so," Djuvula said. Her voice
sharpened a little. She had one fist clenched tightly next to her bare
leg.

Lemparius growled. The sound startled Loganaro with its animal
overtones.

"In fact," Djuvula continued, "I suspect an average eunuch might do
nearly as well."

The senator snarled. "Witch! You will be sorry!"

Loganaro watched in horror as the man he knew shifted shape, becoming a
great tawny cat that lashed its tail rapidly back and forth. The beast
faced the woman, roaring.

Loganaro edged toward the exit to the antechamber. His heart pounded as
if a maddened drummer worked it.

"So," Djuvula said, "you would turn the beast loose upon me, would
you?"

The panther advanced a step toward her.

Loganaro sidled closer to the portal. They did not seem to notice him.
By Mitra, Yama, and Set, if he escaped this, he would reform, he would
become a priest, he would never do another dishonest thing as long as
he lived!

Djuvula raised her clenched fist in front of her face. "You are a poor
loser, Senator. Turn and leave now, and I shall forgive you your ill
grace."

The cat took another step toward the woman and lashed its tail faster.
It began to settle into a crouch, preparing to spring.

Loganaro reached the doorway. With his bound hands he caught the latch
and lifted it.

Djuvula made a backhand toss at the panther with her fist, opening her
fingers as she did so; a fine white powder sprayed from her palm into
the face of the animal.

The cat sneezed: once, twice, a third time. It backed away a step and
batted at its face with one paw.

"You have just been enspelled, cat-who-was-a-senator," Djuvula said,
laughing. "I suspected you might try such as this. So now, there are
three things you can no longer do: You cannot attack me, you cannot
change your form back to that which you were, and you cannot enjoy the
company of female panthers, should you manage to find any." The witch
laughed again, the sound deep and throaty and totally amused.

The panther snarled and leaped toward the woman, but seemed to meet an
invisible wall two paces from her. It rebounded, recoiled, leaped
again, and again hit the same wall.

Djuvula put her hands upon her smooth hips and continued to laugh at
the panther.

Loganaro waited no longer. He jerked open the door and ran. For one so
portly, he moved faster than he would have believed possible. He did
not stop running until he had covered half the distance to the west
gate. Then he slowed only long enough to catch his breath before he
started running again.

"We'll camp here for the night," Conan said. Ahead, he could see the
edges of the forest Vitarius seemed to dread so. Despite his apparent
lack of concern, the Cimmerian himself had no particular desire to camp
in there.

The evening gloom was deepening as Conan gathered wood for the fire. He
had the feeling he was being watched, no matter that he could see no
one regardless of how fast he turned. He had learned to trust his
instincts, and so resolved to stay alert.

When he mentioned his feeling to Vitarius, the old man nodded. "Aye,"
he said, "I feel the prickle of a stare from hidden eyes as you do. It
may be nothing, or some animal, but we are close to the forest and it
would be wise to take precautions. I shall mount a small spell, a
warning enchantment to surround our camp. If anything larger than a rat
tries to approach, we shall know of it."

Reluctantly, Conan nodded. He could do without any forms of thaumaturgy
were it up to him; still, if someone-or something-watched and he could
not see it with his own sharp eyes, then it was apt to be more
lamialike than natural. One witch was enough; let the magician cast his
spell-Conan would sleep lightly with his blade at hand.

Once the fire was blazing he felt better. No animal would venture close
to fire, and the darkness was kept at bay by the dancing flames.

After a cold meal of dried pork and legumes, Vitarius crawled into his
blankets and quickly fell asleep. Eldia soon followed, wrapped in her
robes and covers close to the fire. She looked much younger as the
flickering shadows waved over her face.

Kinna came to sit next to Conan. They stared at the fire quietly for a
time, neither of them speaking. He felt the heat and presence of the
girl next to him in a way different from the fire's warmth.

Finally, Kinna spoke. "This is all so strange to me. You are a man of
the world; you have seen many adventures. I, on the other hand, have
spent nearly all my life as a farmer's daughter, never venturing far
from home. Until now."

Conan looked at the young woman, but said nothing.

"I have never met a man as brave and strong as you, Conan. You risk
your life for something that hardly concerns you."

"Sovartus owes me a horse," he said. "And he has bedeviled me and
caused me to be attacked by witches and werebeasts. A man settles his
debts."

Kinna laid one hand gently on his hard-muscled shoulder.

"The night of the windstorm, at the inn-do you recall how we were going
to inspect your window before we were interrupted?"

Conan smiled. "Aye, I recall."

She stroked his bare back under his cloak. "Perhaps we can inspect it
now?"

Conan extended his arm, wrapping Kinna within the folds of his cloak,
turning toward her. "Aye," he said. "I think you'll find it ready for
your inspection."

Twenty paces from the ring of orange firelight Djavul snarled softly to
himself as he watched the barbarian and the woman. The outer edges of
the White One's spell glistened almost invisibly an arm's length away
from the demon. To touch the enchanted air would cause noise and light
sufficient to arouse the local dead. Djavul gnashed his daggerlike
fangs as he glared at the human couple. "You shall watch me violate her
before you die, barbarian human. And you shall beg for the release of
death before I am done. Your time is coming."

The midnight moon shone wanly upon the pair of sleepy guards posted at
the sides of the west gate of Mornstadinos., The clear sky threw its
starlight upon the scene, joined by the guttering flames of four
torches set upon the wall nearby. Sufficient light existed for the two
men to see clearly the tawny form of a panther racing up the street
toward them. So fast was the animal that the men scarce had time to do
more than utter short oaths before the cat shot between them and out
through the archway into the darkness.

Later, both men swore they had neither been drinking nor smoking hemp
when they saw the panther. Such a beast was a great rarity in these
parts, but not altogether unheard of, and none could fault them for
having failed to stop it, as unexpected as it was. What both men failed
to report was the sight of a long cut along one of the beast's
forelegs, a gash that seemed nearly healed-and bound shut with sutures.
Upon sincere reflection, the sentries had decided that particular
portion of their tale might be best left unsaid.

In the Corinthian night, under the stars and fading moon, the panther
who had once been a man ran, moving in a manner that might be called
dogged had he been canine instead of feline. He had a goal, this
panther, and he moved through his element, the darkness, with only one
thought in his more-than-cat mind: murderous revenge upon Conan of
Cimmeria.


Chapter Fifteen

Conan awoke to see Vitarius grinning down at him. Or, rather, at them,
for Kinna was still wrapped within the folds of the Cimmerian's cloak,
asleep next to him.

"Morning," the old mage said. "Best we ride early, to clear the forest
before nightfall. It is a hard day's journey under the best of
conditions."

Conan nudged Kinna, who smiled in her sleep. "Later," she mumbled, "I'm
tired."

Eldia peered from around Vitarius and laughed.

Conan felt a sense of unease, seeing the girl staring at her sleeping
sister. Not precisely embarrassment, but something kin to it. "Wake,
Kinna," he said gruffly.

Kinna rubbed at her eyes, smiled at Conan, then saw the magician and
her sister watching her. She blinked, and came totally from the land of
dreams. "What are you two staring at?" she said. "You're old enough to
have seen men and women asleep together, Vitarius. And as for you,
sister, I have no need to explain anything to one raised on a farm, do
I?"

"No, Kinna," Eldia said, giggling. "No need at all."

"Then be away and allow me to dress!"

Eldia giggled again, but moved off to tend to her horse. Vitarius began
packing his blankets.

Conan and Kinna looked at each other briefly, and each smiled.

There was a dankness within the embrace of the forest, a smell of mold
and vegetation that seemed to have lain rotting for a thousand years.
The fir trees which were the mainstay of the forest were tall and
barked with rough brown slabs like roof shingles; thick mats of brown
needles graced the bases of these monsters, keeping the underbrush at
bay. Bramble thickets filled the sunnier spots, though few areas were
directly touched by the sun. Instead of the freshness Conan usually
associated with greenery, a heavy atmosphere of rankness lay about
them. No birds sang; no insects buzzed; no small animals darted about.
Conan could well see why Vitarius disliked the place, and said so.

"Ah, this is only the fringe," Vitarius said. "Deeper into the wood,
things truly seem foul."

Conan suppressed a shudder. It seemed his life was filled with
unnatural things of late. He did not like it.

The only sounds were the horses' hooves upon the packed dirt road, and
those seemed half-swallowed by the thickening vegetation. The light
grew dimmer as the trees closed on the road.

Conan thought he saw a flash of red through the trees, as if something
darted between them and then behind a massive trunk thirty paces away.
He stared intently, but saw nothing else. His imagination? He was
tempted to ride into the wood to look, but decided against it. He would
rather clear the forest on the other end by nightfall.

They stopped at midday to rest the horses, eat, and stretch their
saddle-weary bodies. The still air was dark, the sunlight prevented
from reaching the forest floor by the canopy of thick branches. It was
an eerie sensation to know the sun shone brightly at its zenith, but
even so could scarcely penetrate the heavy foliage.

Conan's sense of being watched had not abated. "Stay near," he ordered
the others.

"If my memory serves correctly," Vitarius said, "there is a stream not
far ahead. We must ford it, as the water crosses our path. It should be
no problem this time of year. Earlier, in the spring, it would be a
torrent, impossible to cross."

Conan did not speak. He had again caught a glimpse of red darting among
the trees. Enough of this, he decided. He drew his sword.

"What are you about, Conan?" This from Kinna, scratching a spot behind
her horse's ear.

"Someone flits along our path," he said. "Hidden now in the wood. I
would know who he is, and why he follows us."

Vitarius raised one gnarled hand. "Put away your blade, Conan. You
shall likely see many strange shapes dancing in these woods. For the
most part, the inhabitants offer no harm, only curiosity. It would be
better to avoid antagonizing them."

Conan lowered the point of his blade. Perhaps the old man was right. It
cost him nothing to allow the wood-dwellers to watch him, so long as
they kept their distance. And they would reach the plain by nightfall.

They came to the stream Vitarius remembered within an hour. Fording the
rill would be another matter, however. A huge tree had fallen across
the path leading to the brook, very near the edge of the water's flux.
A man could clamber over the thick-boled trunk easily enough, but a
horse could not. They could go around the great length of the tree, of
course, but that, too, presented problems.

"This is the only shallow spot for a mile in either direction,"
Vitarius said. "From deposits built up by the bank's curve. A dozen
feet on either side, the bank drops sharply. We shall lose time by
detouring."

"Can't we cut through the tree?" Eldia said.

Conan laughed. "Aye, little sister, we could-if we had axes or long
saws. Even so, it would take two strong men the better part of a day to
move enough wood for a horse's passage. With my sword I might manage it
in a month."

"I could burn it," Eldia said.

Conan looked at the girl, then at the old wizard.

The old man shook his head. "Nay. A natural fire would take days to
burn this much wood. And were we to use enough of the Power to do it
faster, we might draw unwanted attention to ourselves. There are things
attracted to high energies, things I would rather not meet in these
woods."

"What shall we do, then?"

"Go around," Conan said. "Unless you are willing to trust the swimming
abilities of these horses, which I am loath to do. If we are only a
mile from another crossing, we can return to the path opposite the
stream within an hour or two, even allowing for the slower going in the
woods."

"That means we must spend the night in the forest," Vitarius said.

Conan shrugged. There was nothing to be done. But as they passed the
root ball of the fallen tree, he noticed the freshness of the moist
soil still clinging to the roots. The giant tree had fallen but
recently. That seemed somewhat odd, since there had been no storms
since they'd left Mornstadinos. .

A thirty-minute ride brought the group to a spot where a sandbar could
be seen stretching across the stream. The bed was wide, but the water
flowed no faster than at the ford by the downed tree. "Here," Conan
said. He directed his horse toward the water's edge.

"Conan, wait," Vitarius said. He pointed across the river at a tree
that grew near the bank.

Conan looked at the tree. It was oddly shaped, looking more like a
thorn bush than a tree for all that it was ten times the height of a
man. And the thorns were fair-sized as well. There was some kind of
litter on the ground around its base. The Cimmerian squinted, and saw
what the litter was: bones. The skeletons of at least half a score
animals ranging in size from muskrats to something as large as a big
dog. What-?

Vitarius dismounted and removed an empty wineskin from his gear. He
waddled to the water's edge and immersed the skin in the flowing
stream. Bubbles rose to the surface.

"What are you doing'?" Conan asked.

Vitarius rose and capped the skin. He had trouble holding the heavy bag
up. "Can you throw this across the stream to the base of the tree?"

The Cimmerian dismounted and hefted the water-filled bag. "I think so,"
Conan said. "Why?"

"Do it, and see."

Conan looked at the old wizard. Had the man lost his senses? He shook
his head, but waved Vitarius back to give himself room to swing the
bag. What was the old man trying to do? Likely the bag would burst on
impact, giving the thorn tree a free drink of water, nothing else.

It was, perhaps, fifteen paces from where Conan stood to the tree. He
whirled the rough goatskin around his head, flexing the sinews of his
arm and shoulder. With a final hard spin Conan heaved the water
container.

The skin seemed to move slowly, almost like a falling leaf. It hit the
ground a few feet from the tree, and skidded toward the trunk. The
seamstress who had stitched the bag deserved credit, for the bag held
firm.

The next thing to happen did not seem to be slow at all. Three branches
snapped downward from the tree, as if they were whips plaited of
bullock leather. A dozen finger-long thorns stabbed the goatskin like
tiny spears, and water sprayed in sudden fountains. When the bag lay
drained of its contents moments later, the tree branches snapped away
as quickly as they had descended.

Conan turned to Vitarius. There were startled expressions on the faces
of Eldia and Kinna; he hoped his own face was less revealing.

"I mentioned that the flora in these woods was strange. Behold the
Kiss-of-the-Lance tree-hardly one you would wish to pass unsuspecting,
eh?"

"I see how the bones come to be there," Conan said.

"Movement over the root system triggers the branches to attack. The
tree feeds on blood and other fluids from its victims, absorbed by the
same roots. The bigger the prey, the more branches it uses to hold the
victim."

Kinna shuddered.

"How are we to pass it?" Conan asked.

Vitarius turned to face Eldia. "Child?"

The girl nodded. She dug her heels into the side of her horse and
started toward the sandbar.

Conan reached for her mount's reins as Kinna said, "No!"

Vitarius said, "She is in no danger! Let her go."

Conan looked up at the mounted child. She nodded. "He is right. I shall
be safe."

Conan released the animal's reins.

"Conan! No!" Kinna urged her own mount forward, but Vitarius blocked
her path. She had to pull up her horse or run the old man down. "She is
a child! You saw what that-that-thing did to the goatskin-!"

The trio turned to watch as Eldia reached the opposite shore. With the
first touch of her animal's hooves upon the ground, the branches of the
tree quivered-and burst into flame! The whiplike branches, encrusted
with long thorns, waved frantically, but this only served to fan the
flames higher. The burning wood crackled like fat dropped into a
cooking fire.

Vitarius pulled himself up onto his horse. "A small fire, not much
power. I do not think it will notice us now."

The detour cost them nearly two hours. When the trail became too dark
to see, Conan halted the party. He turned to Vitarius, who shook his
head. "We are still better than an hour from the edge of the wood. Too
dangerous at night."

"Then we camp here," Conan said.

Djavul crouched behind the bole of a tree, watching. He did not doubt
that the White One would set his magical wards again. The way to avoid
being detected by the spell was simple enough: He must be inside the
perimeter when the mage cast the spell. On the road before, or in the
plains after, that would be impossible without being seen. But here in
the heavy woods it could be done if done carefully. That was why he had
felled the tree. His quarry, the girl and the barbarian, were delayed
long enough so that night caught them in the forest.

Moving with a stealth he was unused to, Djavul edged closer to the
path. He was, he knew, nearly invisible in the darkness, but he still
took care to move as quietly as possible. It was hard; demons had
little reason to learn how to creep. This time, however, it was
important that he avoid being detected. He was careful. No sticks
snapped under his massive horny feet; no branches ruffled loudly as he
passed. It took him nearly an hour to move but a few paces. When he was
done, Djavul was within two leaps of the man he had sworn to kill.

"My spell is cast," Vitarius said. "We can rest easily now."

Conan nodded, but he still distrusted any form of magic. He laid his
bare blade next to where Kinna had placed their blankets. When the
young woman came into his embrace under the wool shelter, however,
Conan ceased to think about the dangers of the forest.

It was smell, not sight or sound, that awakened him. The stink of
hellspawn filled his sensitive nostrils. Instantly, he knew that the
demon he had faced before had somehow found them. Conan's eyes flicked
open, and he reached for his sword.

"Looking for something?" The metallic grate of the demon's voice was
close, almost on top of Conan. He rolled from the blankets and came up,
to see the giant red demon standing not two paces away. And the demon
held his sword.

Behind him Kinna stirred. "Conan? What is it?"

Djavul grinned at the Cimmerian. He mocked the woman in his deep rasp:
" 'Conan? What is it?' " Djavul tossed Conan's sword into the night.
The fire had burned down some, but there was still sufficient light for
Conan to see his enemy well. "I am death, Conan, come for you. Not
immediately, of course. I have some little entertainments for you
first. "

Kinna sat up. Conan gave her only the smallest bit of his attention.
His sword was gone, but there was the curved knife of Lemparius back
near his blankets. If he could get to it-

"Conan! Where is Eldia?"

Conan spared a glance at the girl's blankets. Empty.

Djavul's toothy grin increased. "I have moved her. It would not do that
she and the old White One should splash her Fire upon me before I have
a chance to finish my business."

Vitarius stirred. "What is-oh!"

"Come, wasp," Djavul said. "Grapple with me so that I might tear an arm
or leg from you for my breakfast."

Conan dived for his blankets and seized the knife. He rolled up,
clutching the steel fang, to face Djavul.

"Your stinger has shrunk, wasp." Djavul laughed. "Come and match it
against my one hand." Djavul's nails flicked back and forth in the
firelight like small daggers.

Conan edged forward.

Djavul leaped. He grabbed Conan's knife hand with his own remaining
hand and wrapped his other arm around the barbarian's back. Conan felt
the stump of the demon's wrist batter his spine. He drove his knee at
the demon's groin, but hit the rock-solid flesh of a mighty red thigh
instead. The two tumbled to the ground, locked together like wrestlers.

As strong as he was, Conan felt like a child in Djavul's embrace. The
knife was wrenched from his grip and flew into the darkness. A moment
later Djavul tossed the big youth away as a man might toss a loaf of
moldy bread. The Cimmerian hit the ground hard, his wind knocked from
him.

Djavul leaped the intervening distance to tower over Conan. "You make
it too easy, wasp!" He bent over, reaching for Conan.

The Cimmerian saw Kinna then, swinging her staff. The heavy wood, as
thick as her wrist, whistled in the night air. She smashed the rod
across Djavul's back at kidney level. The brass-bound staff splintered
and cracked, so hard did she wield it. The impact brought a grunt from
Djavul, but only staggered him. He turned, swinging his open hand. He
hit Kinna on the shoulder, knocking her flying.

Conan regained his feet. At the same instant he heard Vitarius yell.
"Conan! Catch!" The white-haired wizard tossed something at the younger
man.

Conan twisted, expecting to see a knife glittering in the firelight.
What he snatched from the air was no blade, however. It felt like
grease over crackly parchment, both stretched over wood. It had several
points on one end, like small daggers. In an instant Conan recognized
what he held: Djavul's severed hand!

Then the demon spun to face Conan. Firelight reflected from his white
fangs, and slime dripped from his open mouth as he reached to grab the
man. He must have expected the man to back away, but the Cimmerian did
the opposite. He lunged at the monster. He had one chance, and he used
it. He gripped the severed hand like a sword, and, with all his
strength, he jabbed the taloned fingers at the face of their former
owner.

The partially mummified fingers were spread. The forefinger and middle
finger stabbed into Djavul's eyes and sank in to the third joint.

The demon screamed, a sound that shattered the night air. Conan's ears
rang, deafened, as Djavul staggered back, clutching his dead hand with
his remaining live one. He tugged at the instrument of his torture, but
it now seemed a part of his face, immovable. The demon dropped to his
knees, still screaming. A strange crackling orange light surrounded his
face. As Conan watched, the light expanded to cover Djavul's entire
form. When the light had bathed the demon from head to toe, it stopped
abruptly, winking out. Djavul fell over backward. His body ran like
heated wax, losing form, then bubbled into a puddle of redness that
spread over the fir needles, until, at last, nothing remained of him
save a damp spot on the ground.

In Castle Slott a pentagram sketched exactingly upon the flagstones of
a certain chamber suddenly flared into orange flame. When the flames
vanished, so did the pentagram.

In Mornstadinos, in her bedchamber, Djuvula the Witch bolted upright
from a dreamless sleep, her eyes wide. She screamed, but it was a
wasted effort. Her brother was no more.


Chapter Sixteen

By the light of the rekindled fire Conan sat with Vitarius, Kinna, and
the returned Eldia. The girl had been moved only a short way from the
place where she had lain-still within the warding spell set by the old
magician.

"He must have been very close to us when I cast the enchantment,"
Vitarius said. "The magic has not been disturbed. "

More than Conan could say for himself. "What happened to him?" He
glanced toward the damp spot that had been Djavul.

"Because I am of the White, the demon knew I could not use his name
against him. But flesh of his flesh was, as it turned out, a more
potent weapon."

Kinna said, "How did you know what it would do?"

Vitarius shook his head. "I did not know. The White Square does not
teach such things. But I had heard rumors; one learns something of the
opposition if one lives long enough. I came across an old parchment
some years ago, a page from some larger work that had been mostly
burned by some wise soul. On this page it was written that flesh taken
from a demon will rejoin its owner, can it be brought into contact with
him again. Had Conan fitted the dead hand back to its wrist, I suspect
the demon would once again have become whole. Apparently, however, the
flesh of demons is not very discriminating-the hand adhered to the
first portion of the devil it touched."

Kinna shuddered. "You mean the hand took root in the fiend's very
face?"

"So it would seem. And since the eyes were a most unnatural place for
it to be, the old hand killed him."

"A fitting death," Conan said. "I shall sleep better, knowing I am no
longer dogged by hellspawn."

Near the edge of the Corinthian road, Loganaro the free agent slept
fitfully. Coldness wrapped him, chilling him to his depths despite his
overlay of fat. He had no blanket; neither had he supplies, having left
Mornstadinos in a great hurry. He had managed to gnaw the bonds from
his wrists, but other than the clothing he wore, he carried nothing.

Something unseen woke the fat man. He listened carefully as he peered
into the darkness, but the only sound was of some distant night bird
calling to its mate. Night sounds, nothing more. This far from
Mornstadinos, he should have nothing to worry about. He was safe.

He relaxed somewhat. Nothing to fear. True, he was used to better
accommodations when he traveled, but this setback was merely temporary
at worst. He had contacts in many of the Corinthian city-states, even
in several of the small kingdoms to the south. In no time at all he
would be able to connive someone into furnishing him with a mount and
supplies. After that he could quickly reach one of his caches of
wealth, of which there were a fair number, in various places.

Mornstadinos might be the Jewel of Corinthia, but it was not the only
city. He might travel to Nemedia, or Ophir, perhaps even Koth. He was
well-connected in all of those places.

Of his hasty promise to become honest and even priestlike, Loganaro
thought not at all, save to smile at such foolishness. One called upon
the gods only in moments of great need. Should the gods answer that
need, why, that was their concern, not his. He had made bargains such
as that a dozen times, and each had been broken quickly thereafter. The
gods were either forgiving, or disinterested in oath-breakers, in
Loganaro's experience. A man did what he had to at the time. After
that, well, things changed as often as the wind. What mattered was that
he was alive and free to return to his less-than-honest-and-honorable
ways. To hell with the gods.

The small grin on Loganaro's face faded slowly as he slipped back into
sleep, lulled by the distant birdcalls.

Upon the starlit road a tawny shape ran. Dawn neared, presaged by its
false brother, so darkness lay thickly over the western road from
Mornstadinos. Only the breathing of the panther could be heard, and
that breathing was tired.

Too, the panther was hungry. He had been running since he'd left the
city, stopping only to rest for short periods, and to take a rabbit
once, and later, a small ground monk. Hardly enough fare for a wildcat,
much less such a large panther as was this one. Revenge fueled him, but
revenge was not such a nourishing dish as warm flesh and hot blood.

As if some benevolent god had heard his wish, the panther suddenly
caught the scent of living meat. There, just ahead, leaning against
that tree. The cat slowed, and began his stalk, dropping his belly
closer to the ground, moving more purposefully.

The meat slept. Good. That would make things easier. He could go for
the throat and suffocate the prey. If the man tried to resist, the
panther could rake open his victim's belly with his hind claws, and
disembowel him.

The cat moved with all the stealth he had, silently as a ghost, but
something startled the meat. Some inner sense, perhaps, warned him of
his impending doom. His eyes snapped open and he tried to scramble to
his feet. He yelled. "No! Not you! Gods, forgive me, I will keep my
vow, I will keep it, I swear!"

The cat who had been a man grinned, revealing his long fangs. Well,
well. How appropriate this was! That his dinner should be this fat-and
treacherous fool. Most appropriate, he thought as he gathered himself
to spring.

In the night the bird that had called to its mate suddenly went silent.

Once again quiet ruled.

Quiet, save for the sound of a great hungry cat rending its prey.

With the trees of the Bloddolk Forest behind him, Conan felt much
better. Here lay a vast plain, dotted here and there by buttes and
rocky ridges, but mostly flat and bare. This was more to his liking; a
man could see danger for a long way, could prepare himself to meet it
properly. Nothing would skulk to within a few paces under the cover of
god-cursed trees and underbrush.

Ahead of him Vitarius and Eldia rode side by side, talking quietly.
Just behind them Kinna's horse walked. Occasionally, the young woman
would look over her shoulder and smile at Conan. He minded this not at
all, for she was a woman of beauty and no small lusty temperament. The
tension that had ridden Conan since his first encounter with the witch
no longer troubled him in any way. He grinned, and hurried his horse a
bit so that he rode closer to the others.

"Ho, Vitarius," Conan said, "perhaps a stop for breakfast might be in
order. Now that we are shut of that cursed wood."

"We should consider ourselves covered with good fortune," Vitarius
said. "That we survived our passage unscathed."

"Good fortune? That we were nearly spitted by a perverse plant and
gobbled up by a giant red demon?"

"Our trip was mild compared to some. At least we survived to tell the
tale."

Conan nodded. The old mage had a point.

The four reined their mounts to a stop and unpacked dried meats and
leathery strips of fruit, upon which they broke their fast. Between
bites Conan mentioned to Vitarius how much he preferred this kind of
terrain to that which they had just left.

Vitarius nodded, chewing thoughtfully on a brownish glob of some
water-leached fruit. "Aye, under most circumstances I would agree. But
this is Dodligia Plain, and not as safe as it appears at the moment. A
half-day's ride will bring us within sight of Castle Slott-it is
another full day from there. And on the plains surrounding such a
wicked place, there will be obstacles. I suspect the only reason we
have not encountered wardens such as those you met upon entering
Corinthia is because we travel toward Sovartus. He would hardly expect
the flies to proceed directly to his web."

The old man took another bite of fruit. "But rest assured, Sovartus is
not one to leave his castle unguarded even if he does not expect us in
particular. He has created a few enemies for himself: more than one man
would see Sovartus swinging upon the gibbet. And the line to spit on
his corpse would stretch to the horizon."

"I would lead such a line," Eldia said, looking grim for one so young.

"Aye," Conan said, "and I would be near the front so as to collect my
horse before all the spoils were gone!" He laughed.

Vitarius frowned. "Better you should save your jests until after we
accomplish our mission. Sovartus does not amuse easily, from my
recollections, and once we sight the castle, we must assume the very
ground to have ears."

Conan turned his head away from Vitarius and cupped his hands around
his mouth. "See that you have my horse ready for my arrival!" he
yelled. He turned back toward the trio watching him and smiled, his
eyes full of blue fire.

No one smiled back at him.

As the sun passed midway over the land on its journey to night, the
four came within sight of a far peak. An odd mountain, Conan thought,
for it stood alone like a cone upon a table, without foothills or
buttes near it. And the peak of the mountain was even more oddly
shaped, jutting out so that it was somewhat wider above a pinched neck,
like some distorted hourglass.

"Castle Slott," Vitarius said.

Conan blinked in disbelief. "That mountain?"

"Much of it. The rock is shot through with caves, most of which
interconnect. That flare you see at the top is not natural; it was made
by men and by magic. From here it appears small; closer you can see
that the tip of Castle Slott is ten times as large as the largest
palace in Mornstadinos. And the top levels are linked to the tunnels
below. Properly provisioned, a man could wander for years within the
castle-mountain and never retrace his steps.

"From here on," Vitarius continued, "we must be on our guard."

Conan stared at the castle. His earlier enthusiasm quickly waned as he
contemplated the awesome construction.

Djuvula supervised the loading of her Prince of the Lance onto her
wagon. The wagon was constructed of a sturdy wooden frame, with a
square tent of heavy canvas stretched over hoops of steamed and bent
ironwood.

"Careful there, buffoon! If you drop that case, I shall shrivel your
manhood!"

The workman's eyes widened, and he moved more gingerly.

Djuvula turned away and went to finish packing her trunk of potions and
powders.

As she carefully padded certain fragile glass balls full of brightly
colored chemicals, once again the sorceress shook her head. She desired
not this journey, but no help existed to save her from it. Djavul was
dead; and, while there could be many reasons why, Djuvula knew in her
own mind that her demon-brother must have met his fate at the hands of
the barbarian, the old wizard, and the girl of Fire. Thus, revenge was
added to her motives for wanting the man and girl. Revenge itself
stirred her but little, though. Her relationship with Djavul had been
based more on mutual self-satisfaction than on any true feelings;
still, he had been kin. A point against her quarry.

With the expected failure of Lemparius as master swordsman of the
bedchamber, it became more important to retrieve Conan for her Prince.
And, of course, there stood the matter of the girl, possession of whom
would buy her favor from Sovartus. Now that Djavul was dead, she would
need a patron more than before. For all these reasons Djuvula knew she
must follow the barbarian and the girl he protected.

She smiled. Fortunately, she would not have to ride the Corinthian road
for long. She had in her possession a powerful spell, taught her by
Djavul, which would allow the caster to travel the in-between lands. A
few hours ride on that hellish road would be worth as many days travel
on any highway in Corinthia.

True, such travel was not without risk even for a witch of considerable
power; there were things that existed in the in-between lands that
would bring terror to the eyes of a demon, much less a mortal woman.
Unwary travelers under the gray sun could die a thousand deaths in a
thousand horrible ways. Djuvula had made other journeys on that route,
however. She was cautious; and, because of their head start, the risk
must be taken if she were to catch her quarry.

She smiled at the thought and continued to pack her magical gear.

Near dusk Conan saw a new menace. One moment the plain to the
Cimmerian's left stood empty for as far as the eye could behold. The
next moment a creature stood not twenty paces away. The thing was
taller than Conan by a foot, and it looked like nothing so much as a
very large dog standing upon its hind legs. The hind feet differed in
shape from a dog's or wolf's, being more manlike, and the forepaws
seemed more apish than canine, but otherwise it was doglike. The ears
were pointed, the snout long and the muzzle filled with sharp teeth,
and the nose was black, with twin nostrils.

Conan had no more time than to turn toward Vitarius and utter a curse,
when the beast vanished. It was there, then it was not-dematerialized
into the dusky air.

Vitarius turned. Conan quickly described the apparition.

The old mage nodded. "A demi-whelf." he said. "A beast of Earth, and
thus controlled by Sovartus-through Eldia's sibling."

"They are magic, to disappear so?"

"No. They live under the ground, in tunnels. The one you saw needed
merely step into a concealed entrance to drop from sight."

"Ah," That made Conan feel better. Beasts, controlled by wizards or
not, could be fought with steel.

"No doubt Sovartus shall shortly know we are here," Vitarius said.
"Best we continue moving; as like as not, the ground here is
honeycombed with the whelves' tunnels."

The Cimmerian nodded. "What are they likely to do?"

Vitarius shrugged, his thin shoulders denting his robe slightly from
within. "They must certainly contact their master somehow. A runner,
perhaps, if not by some magical means. While demi-whelves have not the
keenest eyesight, that one was close enough to observe us and give a
description. I have no doubt that Sovartus is by this time aware of our
presence."

"What will he do, then?" Kinna asked.

The old man shook his head. "I know not. We proceed toward his lair. He
can attack us now, or, perhaps, only await our arrival."

"Then our advantage of surprise is gone," Conan said.

"I had not counted greatly upon it," Vitarius replied.

"Perhaps you should reveal your plan, then, magician." Conan had not
cared for the sight of the demi-whelf.

"When we arrive in the vicinity of the castle, I shall create a magical
diversion of sufficient power and agitation to warrant Sovartus's
attention. While he is thus occupied, you need merely enter the castle,
locate the children, and free them."

"That is your plan?" Conan shook his head. "I am to scale a giant
mountain, enter a castle, search perhaps thousands of rooms until I
find our quarry, defeat the forces that might be mounted by a powerful
wizard inside as guards, and return with three children?"

"That is my plan, yes."

"Ah. And here I had thought there might be some difficulty in this
undertaking. How foolish of me! It will be simple!"

"Sarcasm does not become you, Conan. I am open to better suggestions."

The Cimmerian shook his head again. "Nay, your plan suits me well
enough." He touched the hilt of his sword. "I would rather rely on my
blade than on complicated posturings in any event."

"I shall go with you," Kinna said.

Conan chuckled. "Nay. I said before I work better alone."

Kinna bristled. "You would take me were I a man!"

"I would not take you were you a tame dragon trained to belch fire at
my command. I work best alone; I have always done so. And I am most
glad that you are a woman, Kinna. I would have you be nothing else."

Conan could see the anger on her face war with another emotion. After a
moment she smiled. "Yes. I, too, am glad to be a woman, Conan."

The in-between lands were never peaceful, at least during those times
when Djuvula had traveled them. In two directions, the south and east,
storms raged, spewing forth lightning and thunder; where she was the
atmosphere seemed charged with some elemental force, so that the air
swam with countless small motes, all dancing madly. The in-between
lands twisted straight lines into curves and waves, made corners less
than square, and surrounded every object with a fuzz of its own light-a
total, encompassing delusion.

As Djuvula urged onward the frightened horses pulling her wagon,
something dark flew across her path. gibbering loudly. The horses
started and would have turned had she not used her whip. Despite
blinders and a calming spell laid upon them, the horses were always
skittish. Perhaps they somehow felt the danger that had once claimed
one of their number while pulling Djuvula's wagon. That time, only
Djavul had saved her from the fate of the horse, the filling of some
monstrous thing's bloated belly.

Djuvula shuddered. She wished very much that Djavul still lived and was
seated next to her now.

By her estimate she would need travel this hellish road only another
ten minutes to emerge into her own world again. And ahead of her
quarry. She already had her plans for handling the wizard and
barbarian. If nothing went agley.

Even as she thought this, Djuvula saw a ripple in the landscape ahead
of her. The ground flowed upward in a pulsing mound as a wave swells in
a storm. The earth split with a wrenching sound, as if giant nails were
being pulled from solid wood. A cave filled with pointed stone teeth
suddenly yawned before the sorceress. That this earth-demon would
devour her, horses, wagon, and all, she doubted not at all.

The animals pulling her wagon needed no urging to turn aside. Djuvula
allowed them to tow the wagon away from the road monster, then quickly
pulled them to a stop. To travel away from the safety of the road would
be folly of the highest order. Despite her desire to arrive in the real
world ahead of the party she sought, she decided to leave the inbetween
lands. That the road monster somehow traveled toward her, moving like a
wave in water, hastened her decision. She intoned the words of the
spell quickly but carefully. The swimming air seemed to dance faster,
and an actinic flash lit the scene . . . .

She found herself on a small road on the edge of a danklooking wood.
Quickly, she determined that she had arrived at the northern limit of
the Bloddolk Forest; a further working of her location spell, using
Conan's clothing, showed that the barbarian lay ahead of her, at least
half a day's journey. Damn! She would have to enchant the horses so
they could run all night to catch up to them. Unless she wanted to risk
the in-between lands again. The memory of the cave-mouthed monster
drove that thought away in a hurry.

The witch laid the lash alongside the ear of the lead horse with a pop!
and the horses moved. One of them snorted and tossed his head, looking
nervous. Djuvula looked in the direction of his attention.

Sleeping in the crook of a twisted hardwood tree lay a panther. Djuvula
cursed the horse. "Fool animal, after what you have just seen on the
highway through hell, you fear a sleeping beast?" She stung the horse's
rump with the whip, and the animal went back to his job. The wagon
moved away from the twisted tree and the sleeping cat.

Of the panther, once out of sight, Djuvula thought no more.


Chapter Seventeen

The camp was laid, the tire banked, and Vitarius set his magical wards
once again. Conan had just dozed into a light sleep next to Kinna when
he was jerked from slumber by a terrible cacophony around him.

It sounded to the Cimmerian as if the world were ending; a blast of
noise smote his ears, louder even than the screams of the slain demon,
Djavul. With the screeching came also a flashing of light, multicolored
and blindingly bright. It took but a moment for him to realize what had
happened: Something had entangled itself in Vitarius's magic spell.

Conan rolled from his bed, snatched up his sword, and came to his feet
in a single fluid motion. The night sky was cloudy, but the splashes of
light from the spell were sufficient to see all too well: The
demi-whelves had attacked.

Vitarius untangled himself from his bedding and moved for Eldia, who
was scrambling up with her own short sword held ready. Kinna had
Conan's curved knife and was on her feet as Conan ran to meet the first
whelf to enter the campsite. Muscles rippled under dark fur as the
beast lunged at Conan, fangs bared to tear out his throat.

Those same fangs clacked shut in a final horror as Conan cleaved the
head holding them from the whelf's neck with a single stroke of his
night-cooled steel. Without pausing, the Cimmerian turned lightly on
the balls of his feet to face another leaping wolf. This one spitted
itself on the point of Conan's sword, howling wolfishly as it fell.

Unfortunately, the dying demi-whelf took Conan's blade down with him,
twisting so hard that the handle was pulled from the Cimmerian's
powerful grasp. Conan cursed, and bent to retrieve the embedded sword;
as he did, a third whelf, attacking from the rear, missed its intended
grab-and-bite aimed at Conan's neck. The whelf hit the man instead with
its skinny legs, tripped, and flew over Conan in a lopsided flip,
landing upon its back on the hard ground.

Conan pulled on his sword, but the weight of the dead whelf held the
blood-warmed steel fast. The beast that had smacked into the ground
began to rise.

The Cimmerian abandoned his task, turning instead to face the third
attacker. He growled, to match the voice of the demi-whelf. As the
beast set itself to spring, however, it was suddenly distracted. The
whelf's attention upon Conan faltered for two reasons: Eldia's small
sword stabbed into its rump as Kinna's knife slashed its opposite leg
to the bone. The beast howled.

Conan leaped and drove a hammerlike fist between the whelf's surprised
eyes- The creature dropped as might a sack of grain, its consciousness
knocked from it.

Conan did not pause, but leaped back to retrieve his sword. With one
foot against the downed whelf he wrenched his blade free.

Vitarius, at this point, managed to reach Eldia. The old mage put one
hand upon the girl's head as the words of some magical chant rose
against the din of the warding spell.

Conan had no more time to watch, then, as a phalanx of whelves suddenly
breached the camp's perimeter and charged toward the human occupants.
He grinned, and ran to meet the new threat, slinging from his sword the
gore of their downed comrades at the new arrivals as he moved.

The tight formation of whelves scattered at the sound and sight of
Conan's whistling blade. The beasts were fast, but they stumbled over
each other in their haste to reposition themselves, being too many in
too small a space. One moved too slowly from the Cimmerian's reach, and
so became a kind of limb-brother to the destroyed demon, Djavul.

A flash of supernal blue light came then in a tight beam that speared
first one whelf, then a second and third. Thick smoke and steam erupted
from the lupiform beasts as the light touched them, the beam moving
like some supernatural spear. Eldia.

The remaining whelves scattered, baying in fear. Conan turned in time
to see a shadowy form come up behind Vitarius and Eldia. The Cimmerian
yelled and sprinted for them, but even he could not move fast enough. A
clubbed and apelike fist smote the old man above one ear, and he
crumpled. The contact between the wizard and the girl of Fire thus
broken, the blue flame died abruptly, winking out like a snuffed
candle. The afterglow filled Conan's eyes as he ran for the attacker,
who bent to grab Eldia. The girl whipped her small blade up, and the
whelf leaped back a step.

The short delay was enough; Conan thundered across the ground, not
bothering to slow as he barreled into the whelf. The big man's shoulder
smashed against the beast's chest, knocking it from its feet. The
Cimmerian followed, lifted his sword, and brought it down hard. This
one would trouble them no more.

Conan spun, to see Vitarius trying to stand. Quickly, he moved to help
the old man to his feet.

The wizard was stunned. "What-what happened?"

"You were struck from the rear. I killed it."

Vitarius shook his head. "The whelves . . . ?"

"Dead, mostly, or gone. I see none moving."

The older man nodded, then looked about in sudden fear. "Eldia! And
Kinna! Where are they?"

Conan looked around quickly. Of the two sisters there was no sign.

In the high reaches of Castle Slott, Sovartus of the Black Square
laughed maniacally in triumph. She was his! His enthralled whelves had
her! Only moments before, a raven had come, bearing the message from
the ruler of the demi-whelves. Even now, the girl of Fire was en route,
traveling through the underground network of tunnels built by a hundred
generations of the earth-dwelling lupines.

Sovartus stood in a bare tower room, festooned with loops of dust-laden
spider silk. The room had not been used for years, but the dark stains
upon the slatted wood floor testified to its grisly former purpose.
This was the topmost enclosed space in the castle, a circular room with
windows facing each of the four directions. It would be here that
Sovartus would compound the Elements and create the most potent magic
seen since before the sinking of Atlantis.

He strolled slowly about the perimeter of the tower, pausing to look
through each arched window. He grinned. Soon each window would hold
framed a view of a single Element: To the east would dance great winds;
to the west, the earth itself would roil; to the north, storms would
pour forth a deluge; and to the south-ah-finally, to the south would
burn a pillar of fire, warm enough to scorch the dwellers of Hell
itself. When the Elements were in place, then would he, Sovartus of the
Black Square, command them to join; then would be born the Thing of
Power.

Ah, yes, then would the Four meld and blend to become more than they
had ever been. The idea, the forestalling, would be the conception and
birth, the befruktning. And the world would tremble before it-and the
man who mastered it.

Sovartus laughed again and clapped his hands. Immediately, a pair of
black-robed and cowled figures entered the room and bowed low. Their
faces were invisible within the shadows of their hoods, and they spoke
not, but bowed again to the wizard.

"Fetch the Three," Sovartus commanded. "And have my talisman table and
accoutrements brought here. And my robe of virgin's hair."

The figures in black bowed low again and scurried from the tower,
leaving Sovartus alone. When they had gone, the magician stared at the
stains upon the floor. Soon, he thought, soon the cities of men would
resemble that dark spot, did they not offer up to him total obeisance.
The name of Sovartus would inflict fear and respect upon every man and
woman hearing it, soon. Soon.

Conan found the bloody knife lying near a hole in the ground. He picked
it up and hefted it. The same knife he had taken from Lemparius the
wereman, the same he had last seen Kinna wielding against the
demi-whelves. He stared at the hole, which angled into the earth wide
enough so that a man could slide into it easily.

Vitarius came to stand next to him. "One of the entrances to the
whelves' tunnels. They have taken the sisters underground."

Conan nodded, then made as if to enter the hole.

Vitarius touched the younger man's shoulder with one bony hand. "Nay,
Conan. Crom may live inside a mountain, but this land belongs to the
whelves. You would not find them in the darkness under the earth.
Besides, likely they are a far distance away by now, heading for the
castle."

Conan turned away from the entrance to the demi-whelves' domain. "Then
we must ride for the castle ourselves. They must cover the same
distance, tunnel or no, and if we hurry, perhaps we can arrive before
Sovartus takes them."

"It is dark," Vitarius said. "In the morning-"

"I do not fear the dark," the Cimmerian said. "If the beasts below are
moving, so must we. If you would rather remain behind, I will go
alone-"

"Nay," Vitarius said. "I shall accompany you."

The two men started for their horses.

The wagon of Djuvula the Witch lay under a shroud of magically induced
blackness, invisible to normal eyes beyond a few feet. The fire-haired
woman stood nearby, watching Conan and the mage of the White Square
mount their horses. She cursed softly as the men rode away, angry with
the fates for delaying her transit.

What had happened was all too apparent, from the corpses of the
demi-whelves scattered about. There had been an attack, and the girl of
Fire now belonged to the beasts of the ground, and therefore shortly to
Sovartus. Ah, to have come so close, only to be thwarted!

Djuvula considered her options. She could still have the heart of the
barbarian, no small comfort. And, possibly, she might still somehow
bask in the glow of Sovartus's victory; he was, after all, a man, and
prey to the same desires as all men not infirm or perverted. Sovartus
was known to be many things, but a lover of boys was not among them, so
Djuvula had heard. And she doubted not her skills in that arena.

Yes. Best to continue onward. She returned to the wagon and climbed
onto the driver's bench.

In the darkness, hidden by a dry and sparse bush soon to become a
tumbleweed, the panther who had been a man watched the woman who was a
witch mount her shrouded wagon and depart. A normal cat's eyes were
sharp in the night, and this particular cat had vision far better than
normal in addition to a mind belonging to a man. True, the brain was
going savage, so that in time the panther would be no more than a
beast; still, there remained a strong gleam of manlike intelligence
ruling the animal. And that intelligence had just seen its two greatest
enemies depart.

There seemed hardly any choice but to follow. The witch he could not
attack directly, but there might be some way to cause her downfall. The
barbarian was but a man, and even with a magical knife he could be
surprised and taken.

For the first time since he had become a panther for life, Lemparius
felt a surge of pure happiness.

The cold dish of vengeance grew warmer.

In the highest tower of Castle Slott preparations were being made.
Black-robed and cowled figures moved around the room, attending to the
desires of Sovartus. Under three of the room's four windows, two sons
and a daughter of Hogistum had been chained. Three of the Four Elements
were present, the last due soon.

Sovartus moved away from the fourth window, where he had been watching
the quiet plain of Dodligia. The formerly agitated Elements now stood
quiet, almost as if in anticipation of Sovartus's final victory. No
breeze stirred; no ground trembled; no rain fell.

The talisman table stood in the center of the room, a square shape
covered with carven symbols and resting on four gargoyle feet. Each
quad-clawed foot clenched a square gem; these were black onyx, black
pearl, black jade, and sunset opal. In the middle of the magical table
was set a leather-covered book, also the color of a raven's breast, and
square in shape. Midnight was the room's tone, darker yet its purpose.
This suited Sovartus well, and his smile remained constant. Soon, now,
his striving would come to an end; when it did, there would be a new
beginning to shake the world.


Chapter Eighteen

Conan and Vitarius had not ridden far toward Castle Slott, when the
older man reined his horse to a stop and motioned for Conan to do the
same.

"Why do you halt? The journey is just begun-"

"Silence!" Vitarius's voice held a tone of command that Conan had not
heard before. The power of that single word startled the Cimmerian.

The old magician dismounted and took several steps in the direction of
their travel. He reached out and seemed to be feeling for something in
the night air. Conan saw nothing there. After a moment Vitarius nodded.
He stepped back a pace. "Sovartus has set a warding spell; we are at
its boundary."

Conan stared into the darkness. "We are still some way from his
castle."

Vitarius nodded. He mumbled something Conan did not quite hear. and
waved his hands in a strange pattern. A faint reddish glow appeared in
the air just ahead of the two men, and quickly expanded away from them.
"As you can see, he covers a large area. Once we enter the spell he
will become aware of us. And I, with my magical abilities, will draw
his attention more than an ordinary traveler would. Before we enter his
realm, I must prepare myself. There will be guards for men-he is no
fool-but likely, too, will there be guards for those bearing magics
that would oppose the Black Square. I must be ready."

Conan dismounted and walked about, stretching his sinews as Vitarius
sat cross-legged on the ground and chanted quietly to himself. The
Cimmerian was impatient, eager to put his blade to work. Enough of this
magical foolery. If Sovartus found himself transfixed upon cold and
sharp steel, he would deflate readily enough, Conan would wager. All of
these night-glowings and mummeries sat ill with the big youth. He would
be shut of this kind of work as soon as possible; he was more than
willing to hack his way out of it.

Time passed, and Conan grew yet more impatient. What was the old man
doing? Crom, they would be here for the next season's change!

"I am ready," Vitarius said.

Once again Conan was startled by the magician's voice. There was the
new note of power he'd heard before, but something additional also rode
there. It seemed as if a young man had spoken. And though Conan saw
nothing so changed he could name it, Vitarius seemed to move
differently from the way he had before. Somehow more assured, his
manner was.

They remounted their horses and approached the glowing air.

Conan noticed no difference when they entered the warding spell; no
lights flashed, no screeches filled the night air. Vitarius, however,
said, "He knows we have come. Be on guard. He cannot turn his full
attention to us, for he is preparing himself for his abominable
experiment. Still, he controls much power-and much danger lies ahead."

The Cimmerian pulled his sword free of its leathern home and held it
angled across the front of his saddle. "Good," he said.

A wind began to blow, driving sand into Conan's face. His horse
whinnied and tried to sidestep away from the dust, but the Cimmerian
held the beast to its course.

"Sovartus," Vitarius said. "He seeks to test our mettle."

Conan nodded. "A breeze shall not stay us."

The wind increased suddenly, a gust rocking Conan in the saddle. He
slitted his eyes and leaned into the dusty wind. With his free hand he
tried to shield the eyes of his horse.

The old mage intoned the words of some spell then. Abruptly, the wind
died.

"Air," Vitarius said. "But not much of it. He thinks us little threat,
it would seem."

"I look forward to correcting his mistake," Conan said.

"I hope your optimism is well-founded."

Djuvula wrapped her scarf more tightly around her face to keep the dust
from her eyes. She would not oppose Sovartus with her magic, of the
Black, as was his own; therefore, it was unlikely he would deign to
attack her directly. She had no fear of mortal guards who might be
posted along the Dodligian road to Castle Slott.

She felt the force of the old wizard ahead of her flash out, and the
wind died. That one had more power than she had thought. She had been
surprised at how strong he truly was when he had paused to focus the
White energies a short time earlier. He had just brushed aside
Sovartus's nightwind as a man might brush away a pesky insect.
Interesting.

Of course, her major concern lay in how the wizard might utilize those
energies against her, did he know she followed so intently. She must
wait, it seemed, until Conan and he of the White Square were separated
enough so that she could strike against the barbarian. The castle grew
closer, and her dealings with Sovartus would have to be considered as
well; still, enough time lay ahead yet to complete all her business.
All the time in the world.

The panther moved in the lee of the wagon, partially protected from the
wind in this manner, but not altogether so; some of the road grit found
his face, and he blinked against it. The panther trod carefully, to
avoid coming within range of the magic shroud that cloaked the witch's
conveyance. He did not think she knew of him, trailing her this way;
neither would he have her know-yet. She had humbled him once with her
foul magic, and he would not have such happen again.

As Lemparius padded along behind the wagon he considered for the
hundredth time how he might effect Djuvula's destruction. She had
rendered him impotent against her directly, but there must be another
manner in which he could attack. Something indirect. But-what?

For a moment the beast took over. Lemparius had to resist the urge to
snarl; he had to hold himself in check to keep from sprinting to the
front of the wagon, to slash at the horses, to drink from their blood
before leaping upon Djuvula to rend her lifeless.

The moment passed, and the mind of the man once again rode in full
control of the animal's form. It would have been a foolish move to be
prompted by such feline passions, a wasted effort, doomed from the
start.

The catman shook his head. He would have to do something soon; he must
do something ere he lost his human sanity to become a panther in
thought as well as in form. He had but one hope in that regard: If
Djuvula were to die, perhaps her bewitchment of him might also die. He
might then regain his human form. A fragile hope, he knew, but all that
he had.

Of course, there was the matter of Conan, who must die in any event.
But whether the barbarian was killed by the panther or by the man he
had been mattered little. He would die; more, he must die in such a way
that Djuvula-if she still lived-could not obtain the man's heart for
her simulacrum. She must be denied that pleasure even if she survived
it by only a moment.

Revenge was a dish to be savored slowly, Lemparius was finding, in all
of its flavoring, before settling into partaking of it in full earnest.

The wind and dust settled then, but a sniff of the night air brought to
the cat's sensitive nostrils the smell of something he liked less:
rain, and coming soon.

Lemparius held the cat's voice, but the snarl and low growl existed in
thought if not sound.

The rain came across the plain at a driving slant, presaged by
lightning and booming thunder. In the light of the crackling discharges
Conan saw the first fat, heavy drops splatter against the dry ground,
raising dust as they thunked into the earth. In a moment the wall of
water neared, a blanket of gray reaching to enshroud the two riders.

Despite the moisture in the air, the hair on Conan's arms and neck
stirred, as it sometimes did on removing a heavy woolen cloak on a
winter's day. His horse made as if to bolt, and Conan held him steady
only with difficulty.

Vitarius suddenly reached skyward, arms extended fully, fingers spread.
He yelled a short phrase.

A jagged bolt speared from the heavens, straight at the pair of men and
horses. Conan saw the bolt deflected somehow, several spans over his
head. The thunder that followed the thwarted charge was also muted, so
that it was felt more than heard.

Vitarius now glowed with a pale light not unlike that produced by the
flashes of lightning. The rain that should have fallen upon them fell
before and behind and to either side, as though an invisible tent had
been erected over the men and mounts. The storm raged at the shield;
lightning crackled at it, thunder drummed upon it, hail the size of
Conan's fist shattered against the clear air. The dry ground around
them, outside of Vitarius's protection, became like a swamp, yet Conan
could smell the dust disturbed by his frightened horse's hooves as the
animal pawed the ground.

The storm standing over him must be supernatural, Conan knew.
Unprotected from the tempest, he would have surely paid a dear price,
maybe even his life. Despite his distrust and dislike of any form of
magic, Conan found himself most glad to be next to Vitarius at the
moment. Most glad.

Spray from the driving rain found its way through the canvas that
formed the roof of Djuvulas wagon, thick as the material was. She dared
not use any more of her magic to augment the material's natural
protection, for fear of attracting either Vitarius's or Sovartus's
attention. She had risked erecting a shelter for the horses, speeding
up the process with a spell so that the hail, at least, would not bash
them senseless. That same hail battered at her own roof, denting it
deeply in places and making a terrible racket when the ice struck a
supporting wooden hoop.

Djuvula lay on the bed next to the box containing her Prince. She
stroked the smooth wood idly, and spoke to the form inside as if it
were alive. "Fear not, my love. We may be dampened, but not for long.
Do not allow the din to disturb your slumber . . . . "

Crouched under the witch's wagon, the panther held very still, even to
breathing shallowly and with great care. He did not think that Djuvula
would hear him with the storm howling about them, but he knew he must
not be careless.

He would have found other shelter had there been any; upon this portion
of the plain, however, there existed no protection from even a normal
rain, much less one driven by wizardry. Despite his ability to
withstand ordinary dangers, the panther was no proof against such magic
as Sovartus controlled. Hail so heavy that it dug holes in the ground
would smash a skull easily enough even his.

A funnel began near one edge of the dry spot underlying the wagon and
sought to cross to the opposite side. Lemparius would have moved, but
the hail chose that moment to cease falling and the relative quiet
might have allowed the witch to hear such a movement. So the panther
held his place as the cold finger of water reached his belly and began
to puddle there, running along his length.

His nostrils flared and the panther laid his ears back in rage. Yet
another indignity for which Djuvula owed him. He cursed inwardly, but
remained as a stone statue as the cold and muddy water soaked his fur.
As quickly as it had begun, the rain stopped. The stars appeared behind
the scudding clouds along with a sliver of settling moon. As the storm
faded so did the glow surrounding Vitarius. For a moment the wizard
looked tired. Then he took a deep breath and straightened slightly,
shaking off the weariness as a dog shakes off water.

"It has been too long since I played these games," Vitarius said. "I am
out of practice."

Grudgingly, for all his dislike of sorcery, Conan said, "You did well
enough."

"Aye, but these are but small tests. When Sovartus tries with real
force, I shall have to do better."

The Cimmerian nodded.

"Then the sooner we get to yon castle, the sooner we can depart this
cursed plain."

"Aye, Conan. Ride on."

They urged their horses onward.

High in his castle, Sovartus became aware of an irritation, something
amiss in the mystical web of forces with which he surrounded himself.
On Dodligia Plain a faint glimmer of antithetical forces existed where
none should, as a boil upon otherwise healthy skin. Well, he had no
time for such things. He sent a wind to blow it away.

Sovartus returned to his preparations for the arrival of the girl of
Fire. He donned his virgins'-hair robe, feeling the power it carried.
He called for a bottle of his oldest and finest wine and sipped of the
liquid as he contemplated his new place in the cosmic scheme of things.
Ah, what power he would command!

He felt an itch in his side then, but it was metaphysical and not
manifested in his own flesh. He expanded his consciousness, searching
for the source of the bothersome itch.

Damnation! That glimmer upon the plain remained despite his broom of
nightwind. Well, he could take another moment from his anticipation of
glory to deal with it. Within his own sphere of influence Sovartus need
not call for everything upon any of the Three he had pent. He was not
without powers of his own, especially so close to his lair. He called
for a storm, sending hellish force upward into the skies to shape the
resulting tempest to his will. Then, like a boy casting a ball,
Sovartus sent the tropical zephyr toward the troublesome speck. Defy
this, insect!

Presently, the itch grew worse. After his astonishment that it
persisted, Sovartus knew it for what it was: Vitarius, of the White,
moved against him!

Truly astounding. Surely the old man knew better? He had not even kept
himself young with his magic-those of the White seldom used their
powers for personal gain or enhancement-and even if he were senile; he
must know how foolish it would be to proceed against one of the Black
in his own Square of power.

When the girl of Fire had been taken, Sovartus had given Vitarius no
further thought; unless the man were mad, he would simply go away, for
he could not hope to compare his feeble powers with those of Sovartus's
own. To contend would be suicide-the man had to know that--even if
Sovartus did not control the Thing of Power, which he shortly would.
There was very little for the White Square to draw upon here, not with
the near-omnipotence of the Black focused as it was upon this plain.
Hogistum had taught them both that White and Black had their places;
and this place belonged to the Black as surely as night followed day.
Vitarius had been the better student, he must know that.

Unless-unless Vitarius had some hidden focus? Some trick he concealed
to spring upon an unwary opponent?

Sovartus rubbed at his face with one hand. Yes. That must be it. The
old man has some hidden card: he had to have such. Best I find out what
it is before I do anything that might turn back upon me, Sovartus
thought. A probe, to see how Vitarius reacts.

Sovartus smiled, pleased with his sharpness of wit. And he had just the
thing to try upon his old training mate. Just the thing . . . .

Dawn approached, but darkness still reigned when Vitarius once again
motioned for Conan to halt. The two men had only a short distance left
before reaching the base of Sovartus's mountain-castle, and Conan had
hoped they might do so without further incident. He was wrong.

Vitarius said, "Our enemy is about to task us. And it will be no small
thing this time. I think it better that we should part, Conan. You must
ride for the castle; I shall try to occupy Sovartus while you search
for the children. And Kinna. May the White protect you, Conan of
Cimmeria."

Conan slapped at the hilt of his sword. "I will put my faith elsewhere,
old one. But I wish you good luck. I will return with the children and
Kinna as soon as I can."

The old mage nodded, and waved one aged hand. He alighted from his
horse and sat cross-legged upon the ground.

Conan spared him a final glance before turning his attention-and his
horse-back toward Castle Slott.

Djuvula felt a prickling on her skin as she drew near the old magician.
The air was full of anticipatory flux, presaging some magical
production. Even within her concealing shroud of darkness she felt a
chill touch her.

She was nearly past the old man, who sat upon the bare ground with his
eyes closed when he called out. Djuvula started at his words.

"Ho, witch; best if you depart this area quickly. There is apt to be
some spillage from my coming confrontation with Sovartus."

Djuvula almost spoke, then thought better of it. Could he really see
her?

Vitarius answered her unspoken thought. "Aye, I have known you followed
us for some time, witch. And I know, too, of that which shadows you.
Whatever your purpose, you would be better served to turn around and
flee. My sense of future is very dim for the most part; but in this
instance I see ruin for many near to this venture."

Djuvula stared at the White magician. What did he mean, that which
shadows me? And what of his ill prophecy? Djuvula's chill intensified,
and she glanced around the edge of her wagon, searching for any
pursuer. She saw none.

No point in maintaining the cloaking spell, she knew. She allowed the
shroud to dissipate. For a moment she considered what the old man had
said. She decided to ignore him. He was about to receive the brunt of
Sovartus's magical ire; he was no threat to her. And, more important,
the barbarian no longer had the White to look after him.

The witch grinned. Conan would have gone on ahead to the castle.
Djuvula still knew not why, but that was where she would find him. She
popped her whip at the horses.

The White mage never opened his eyes, but he spoke three words as
Djuvula drove past, three words that touched her as might a fiery brand
upon her flesh: "You were warned."


Chapter Nineteen

The first gleamings of morning light found Conan staring at the
entrance to a large cave in Castle Slott's mountain base. The hole in
the rock was easily large enough for a mounted man to enter, a perfect,
open invitation at the end of the trail leading to the wizard's home.

Conan grinned. The cave mouth was, if anything, too perfect and too
open. His experience as a thief had taught him many things, not the
least of which was to beware of things that looked too good to be true.
His memories of the easy stroll into the home of Senator Lemparius were
all too fresh in his mind; only a fool refused to learn from his
mistakes. Conan of Cimmeria would not march into what must be a trap.

How else to enter the mountain, then? He smiled and looked up at the
wall of craggy rock. He was, after all, a Cimmerian; mountains had yet
to be made that could not be climbed, especially by those hardy
northern people from whom Conan had been bred. He would go up, and he
would find a way.

Before he did, however, Conan was curious about some thing his sharp
senses detected in a stand of trees not far from where he now sat on
his horse. There came the sounds of pent animals, and the odor of
beasts tainted the morning air.

He slid from his mount and used a large rock to peg the animal's bridle
to the ground. Moving with catlike grace, the big man went to see what
lay within the cover of the trees.

Horses: A corral full of them milled about, guarded by a single man
wearing a hooded black robe and holding a long staff. To one end of the
enclosure sat a wattle-and-daub stable, with piles of hay and grain
within.

From the cover of a thick-leaved bush Conan's grin stretched as wide as
it got. Well, well, well.

The Cimmerian backed away from the corral. He would certainly return
here when he had done his business with Sovartus; for now, however, he
must finish that business.

Conan removed the bridle and unsaddled his mount, allowing the animal
to graze among the sedge. No telling how long his errand might take,
and there was no point in the horse suffering while his master was
gone. He hid the mount's gear carefully, taking only a skin of wine and
some dried meat for supplies. He made certain his sword and Lemparius's
knife were securely in place, then approached the outcrops of the
mountain. Pausing only to remove his sandals, he began his climb.

Sovartus was seated near his talisman table, working the intricate
spell of the Rain of Cosmic Fire, from the unholy book called the
Zilbermankarikatur, the use of which nearly always brought ruination to
its object. That powerful and cursed energy now focused upon Vitarius
of the White Square, a shower of annihilation that rarely failed.

Let's see you escape this time, old classmate!

One of his black hoods arrived then, and interrupted Sovartus's
gloatings. The shrouded form bowed low and pointed speechlessly.
Sovartus turned to see what the hooded servant wished him to see.

A brace of demi-whelves stood there, looking nervous at being inside
Castle Slott. More important, however, was the child held between them:
It was her! The Child of Fire, his, at last!

So taken by this vision was Sovartus, that at first he did not notice
the young woman standing near to the girl. When he did, Sovartus asked,
"And who are you?"

The woman drew herself up stiffly. "I am Kinna, half-sister to those
children you have stolen!"

Sovartus smiled, to reveal teeth as white as bleached bone. "Ah," he
said, "then you are sister to me as well."

"Nay, black-souled warlock, I am not! Stepsister, perhaps, and that
reluctantly."

Sovartus swept his gaze over the girl's comely form.

"No matter," he said. "I am certain I can find some good use for you,
dear. But later we can discuss our mutual pleasure; for now I have
other matters to which I must attend." The wizard clapped his hands,
and more hooded figures appeared. Sovartus pointed to the girl. "You
two, take Eldia to join her brothers and sister." To Eldia he said, "I
have been waiting for you since you were born, girl. You will no doubt
enjoy meeting your long-lost kin-for a few moments anyway."

Kinna said, "What are you going to do with them?"

Sovartus shrugged. "After they are drained of the essences I need, I
shall have no further use for them. Magically, that is. I suppose I can
devise some entertainment utilizing such tender things."

He waved at the remaining hoods. "Take her to a lockroom; see that she
is well fed and made comfortable against my future use." To the two
demi-whelves Sovartus said, "You may depart. And see that you advise
the whelves that it would be wise to descend to your lowest tunnels for
a time; the surface of Dodligia Plain will not be a healthy place to be
in a few hours."

Sovartus spun, his robe flaring widely as he started for the tower. At
last! At last!

The morning sun shone brightly, but not so brightly as the
conflagration spraying from the skies onto Dodligia Plain. The panther
had to swing wide to avoid the fires. Had he worn a man's body, the cat
would have cursed; this would delay him, and he had already done one
stupid thing by falling asleep at the wrong time. This act had allowed
the witch to pull away from him. There had been no help for it; even
his supernormal panther abilities had limits, and he had been
stretching them for days, resting and eating little. He now thought to
hurry and catch Djuvula, only this magical assault upon the empty plain
slowed him again-

Wait. The plain was not empty. Squinting against the splashes of
brilliant red and orange, the panther saw a seated figure, protected
from the incandescent air by a shimmering white glow. The old magician?
It must be, though the eyes of the feline watcher were not efficient
enough to discern such details amid the surrounding brightness.

But, as the panther-who-had-been-a-man looked, the seated figure
managed to stand. It raised one arm, and the hand seemed to ignite with
a cooler flame, more blue than red. The flame grew into a ball half the
size of the figure, then an indigo beam shot out, undimmed and
unhampered by the fiery rain. The line of glowing energy arced away
from its generator and splashed against the mountain with the castle
atop it, creating a fountain of blue sparks where it hit.

The panther turned and loped away. He wanted no part of this, whatever
it was. He had his own problems that must be attended to, and they did
not include being fried by an angry wizard.

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 another 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.

He could eat later, if not her flesh, then that of the barbarian-if
Lemparius still had to wear the form of a panther.

The cat padded across the stone quietly and entered the corridor behind
his prey.

From the highest tower of Castle Slott, Sovartus could see the
beginning of life for the Thing of Power. The essences of the children
were now wrapped within the spell he controlled; the plain itself
seemed to live as great winds howled across the roiling ground, joined
by rainstorms and bolts that arced from the earth to the skies and
back. A crack split the ground asunder, and flames belched from the
bowels of the earth to join the other Elements.

The four children seemed to be asleep, unseeing and unhearing of the
energies erupting over the plain outside, but Sovartus felt those
magical forces tugging at his own essence. Only his skill kept him from
being torn apart by the elemental madness out there.

The hooded ones standing by his door cowered within their robes, but
Sovartus only laughed to see this. Now, after all the years, after all
the study and waiting, now, now, NOW!

Twin whirlwinds began to spin upon the convulsing plain, giant
tornadoes of black air twirling at speeds never seen in such winds
before. As Sovartus watched, these funnels detached themselves from the
storms that created them, moving freely against the prevailing winds
driving the clouds. The tornadoes moved to a point where they stood
side by side, then like giant drills began to dig up the earth,
twisting it upward.

Yes, yes! Sovartus shook with the power of it.

The ground rose in chunks the size of houses, of castles, and it came
together over the tornadoes to form a body, a torso like none ever
seen.

Sovartus laughed again and extended his arms toward the skies. Another
pair of spinning winds, somewhat smaller than the first pair, howled
forth from their mother storms and became as arms on the figure
building itself upon the plain.

The castle shook then, struck by a line of blue light that arced from
farther out on the plain. Sovartus nodded at the source of the light.
Too late, old classmate.

The master of the Black Square waved his arms yet again and pointed his
stiffened fingers at the rainstorms. A single cloud broke away from the
main body of the storm. Spitting lightning, the cloud moved to hover
over the gigantic earthen body, then settled upon it. Three holes
opened in the cloud, looking like eyes and a mouth; lightning formed
jagged and flickering teeth in the gaping maw.

Sovartus howled in his glee, a sound to mimic the roar outside.

The black wizard ran to the window and leaned out into the rain to
stare at the ground. The sundered earth still spat fire below, turning
the base of the mountain white with steam as the fire met the rain.
Sovartus turned his hands palms up and raised them. The flames roared
higher, and a pair of fireballs broke free of the pit and surged
upward. Like demonic fireflies these globs of matter flew, soaring
until they stood in front of the cloudhead that rode the massive body
of earth, which in turn rode on legs of devil-wind. The fireballs moved
into the empty sockets with a hiss . . . .

Yes! Yes! YES! Sovartus took a deep breath and yelled out the final
word, the last word in the most powerful spell he or any other mage had
ever created.

The storm died. The earth sealed over, stopping the fire. The plain
grew almost quiet save for those sounds coming from the construct that
now towered as tall as the mountain which was Castle Slott. The thing
made of the Four Elements turned, so that it faced Sovartus. It
blinked, hiding its eyes of living fire with lids of cloud unaffected
by the heat. When it opened its lids again, Sovartus knew that it truly
saw him, that he had succeeded. Slowly and ponderously, the giant bowed
toward Sovartus.

The Thing of Power lived.

And Sovartus was its master.


Chapter Twenty-One

Kinna led, for she recalled more of the route to the heart of the
wizard's lair than at first she'd thought. In only a short time she and
Conan ascended past the rock base and into the castle proper. The
stones of the constructed portion of Slott seemed as old as the
mountain itself. Here the walls bore the stains of many years of taper
and torch soot; here, too, a maze of twisting tunnels honeycombed the
construction, as they had in the rock beneath. The gloom was broken,
however, by infrequent windows, allowing light from outside to war with
the inner darkness. Passing one of these artificed cracks in the outer
wall, Conan drew up suddenly to stare at the thing he saw taking form
upon the bare plain.

"What is it?" Kinna called.

Conan pointed wordlessly.

The young woman returned two paces to look along the line of Conan's
pointing finger. She gasped.

"Aye," Conan said, "of all the evil in this venture, that is the
worst." He continued to stare at the tornadoes and churning earth, at
the formation of a head from the thunderstorm, and the eyes of
fireballs. The thing blinked then, and seemed to stare directly at
Conan; then it bowed.

Conan turned away. "We must hurry," he said. "Whatever it is, Sovartus
owns it-it bowed not to us!"

They ran. So quickly did they climb the slanting floor that they almost
blundered into disaster. Conan's keen nose caught the scent of the
robed lizards first, and he grabbed Kinna's arm and covered her mouth
to still her surprised outcry. "Shhh. There are more of the hooded
things just around the corner."

Kinna tugged at Conan's hand, and he removed his palm from her lips.
"How do you know?" she whispered.

"By their stench. Wait here."

Conan left Kinna standing in the shadows while he edged along the
corridor to the turning. He squatted low, then carefully peeped around
the corner, keeping his face close to the dank stone.

The hallway opened into yet another room, this one not much larger than
a rich man's bedchamber. There stood next to the walls nine of the
hooded reptiles, each armed with a pike like the one Kinna now bore.
From their positions it seemed as if these beings were guarding the
arched doorway on the opposite wall. Deep in his gut Conan felt a surge
of knowledge: Through that doorway must be Sovartus, and, with him,
Eldia.

Conan slid back before any could see him. Here was where they must go;
but passing nine of the hellishly fast and strong lizard-things would
be dangerous. He arose from his crouch and moved silently toward Kinna
to tell her what he had seen.

Djuvula had a premonition, and so stopped before allowing her guide to
lead her around the next angle in the castle's corridor. She bade the
enspelled reptile to stand fast, and she moved to steal a glimpse of
what lay ahead.

Beneath the light of tapers sending spirals of black smoke toward the
ceiling of the corridor stood the barbarian, talking to a young woman!
At last! She would take him now, by Set!

From the pack that she had caused the reptile to bear, Djuvula withdrew
two items: The first was a curiously shaped vessel of magical design by
which she could keep alive for a time any organ placed within. The
second item was a thinwalled porcelain bulb. This latter Djuvula
unpacked carefully from a thick, soft padding of lamb's wool. Within
was a powder made from the dried petals of the black lotus. She had
traded a magical spell to one of the priests of Yun for the deadly
dust, against the time when she might need to deal instant death to
anything that breathed. To inhale even the smallest portion was fatal,
so the yellow-skulled priest had said; his demonstration upon a dog had
proven it to Djuvula's satisfaction. The witch hefted the porcelain
ball in her left hand and drew a small, sharp dagger from her girdle.
She had some surgical skill at removal of hearts from recently dead or
dying men-all the failures-in the service of her Prince. But the
barbarian must not flee before the black lotus blossom could do its
work.

Djuvula jabbed the hooded creature with her dagger. "Go," she said,
"and catch me that man you see just ahead."

The hooded figure moved, and Djuvula grinned at its back. It would not
matter if Conan slew it, for the thing need only delay him a moment
until she could toss her deadly gift within range of the barbarian.
Then all in the corridor would die, and quickly . . . .

The mind of the panther slipped back and forth now, from man to beast.
It was only with the greatest concentration that Lemparius could
maintain a hold on his humanity within the form of the werecreature he
had become. His fear drove him faster in his pursuit of the witch. If
he did not catch her soon, he was certainly lost, doomed to live out
his days as a cat; worse, he would not even be aware of his state, for
his mind would be gone, submerged under that of the beast. He would be
less than the flicker of a single spark in an endless Stygian night.

With this fright riding his supple form, the panther ran. And so,
rounding a turning in the dank, rat-infested castle, he found himself
staring at the back of Djuvula.

The man in him knew he wore a prohibition against attacking the
flame-haired woman, but the beast surged forth and held sway over the
cat's body. Lemparius, former senator, former man, roared his rage with
the voice of a maddened panther.

The sound startled the woman; she jumped and uttered an oath before she
knew she had nothing to fear from this particular cat.

Lemparius's mind fought for control even as the panther gathered itself
to spring. He almost won control. Almost, but not quite.

The werepanther leaped for the witch.

Conan spun at the sound of feet scrabbling upon the flagstones. Several
things happened then, with that particular kind of slowness that
sometimes wrapped itself around moments of great danger. It was as if
the air became cold-congealed syrup, arresting the motions of the
players in this sudden drama.

One of the hooded lizards appeared out of the darkness, running toward
him. Almost immediately, the thing was followed by a woman-the witch,
Djuvula-Conan recognized. Then a sand-colored form seemed to float
through the air-that was a panther, going for the-witch's throat. Conan
thought he knew this beast.

He saw the line of a cut on the beast's leg, and knew he was correct.
Lemparius. But why was he attacking the witch Just then the panther was
deflected by an invisible wall from his would-be prey. More sorcery!

No time to wonder how they had come to be here. Conan raised his sword
as the black-garbed lizard-man leaped for him. The roar of the cat
would draw others, Conan felt sure, and he had no plan, and no time to
formulate one. The time for thinking was past; only action would serve
him now!

Conan sidestepped and brought his blade down as the hooded thing
lunged. The creature could not stay his charge, and the sharp steel met
the scaly back and became part of it. The thing fell, loglike, bearing
Conan's sword. The barbarian swore, and bent to yank the blade free.

The sound of many shuffling feet reached Conan. He turned toward the
noise, and saw the first of the guards round the corner. That was a
mistake, for Kinna leaped at the thing with her pike outstretched and
skewered him like a pig for roasting.

The panther roared again, and again rebounded from the shield that
protected the witch from his attacks. Growling and screaming in
incoherent rage, the beast whirled, and espied Conan. It moved for him.

Four or five of the lizard-men cleared the corner, pikes held at the
ready. Kinna's own pike was useless, still clutched by the entrails of
the one she had slain.

"Kinna! To me!"

Conan caught another movement: The witch was fumbling with something.
She dropped whatever it was, but managed to catch it before it hit the
floor. She cursed.

Conan swung around to face the panther, realizing too late that his
sword offered no proof against the wereman's attack.

The cat leaped for Conan's throat, and the big Cimmerian swung without
thinking. The blade sank into the beast's side, shearing ribs and
knocking the panther to one side. But even as it landed, Conan saw the
welling blood cease its flow, and the wound knit itself together.

The Cimmerian turned quickly toward Kinna and tossed her his sword.
"Here!" he yelled.

With that, he snatched Lemparius's curved knife from his belt just as
the cat sprang again. Conan ducked and stabbed upward with the steel
tooth. The tip speared the panther under the throat; the force of the
cat's leap carried it over Conan's squatting form, and the magical
blade laid it open from neck to hindquarters. Steaming entrails gushed
forth, and the panther who had been a man hit the ground, rolled once,
and died.

"Conan!" That was Kinna, who swung Conan's heavy blade wildly and with
little effect against the cluster of hooded lizard-men, who all
jockeyed to get at her.

Conan caught the sword from her and lunged forward. One of the lizards
took the point under his chin. It fell back, mortally wounded.

"Now I have you!" came a voice behind him. Conan backed away from the
clutch of pike bearers and risked a quick glance down the hall.

Djuvula the Witch stood straight and still, holding a small globe high
over her head. "It is your time, Conan, and the time of all with you!"

The castle shook, the walls glowing briefly with a bluish light.
Vitarius! He still carried the fight against Sovartus! Good, Conan
thought, for certainly he and Kinna were doomed-

Djuvula screamed as she lost her balance on the vibrating floor. The
globe she held spun away from her clutching fingertips, and she
screamed again. "No!"

The globe smashed upon the floor as the blue light died. A thick cloud
of dust burst from the shattered ball, a greenish-yellow mist that
billowed out to fill the corridor.

Instantly, Conan knew the cloud for what it was: He had seen it used
before by a Nemedian thief when they had scaled the Tower of the
Elephant in Arenjun. The thief was long dead, but what he had said
lived in Conan's memory. Black lotus dust, and breathing it meant
death!

Conan's instincts took over. He grabbed Kinna by the hand. "Hold your
breath, girl-do not breathe!-and run for your life!" With that, he led
Kinna into the cloud of death.

Even without breathing, Conan caught the taint of a sickeningly sweet
and cloying odor as the thick cloud closed over him. He tripped on the
fallen form of the witch, nearly fell, but recovered, towing Kinna
along with him.

Behind him, Conan heard the sound he had hoped to hear: the footsteps
of the hooded lizard-men, chasing them.

The man and woman passed out of the cloud, but Conan kept going, to
shake the traces of dust that clung to them. When he stopped. he still
did not breathe as he brushed more of the vaporous substance from his
and Kinna's clothes and bodies. He moved away from this spot before he
finally allowed his inhaled air to escape. He drew in another lungful
of air carefully, but no hint of the powdery death remained. He nodded
at Kinna. "Breathe," he said.

Kinna panted noisily, and followed her inhalation with a question:
"What of the hooded ones?"

"Listen," Conan commanded.

The sound of heavy forms dropping onto the flagstones reached his ears.

"I hear nothing-" Kinna began.

"Wait."

After a time the cloud of dust began to settle and dissipate; as it
did, the silent forms of the hooded lizards took shape upon the floor.
Among them, too, lay the bodies of Djuvula the Witch, who had wanted
Conan's heart for some foul spell, and near her a naked man was
sprawled on his back, gutted.

"What-?"

"A poison," Conan explained. "I have seen it work before. Vitarius
shook the mountain and the witch dropped the vial, destroying herself."

"Who was the man'?"

"Lemparius. And he was also a panther. Now he is neither. Come, we have
your sister to rescue, and her siblings. And Sovartus must be stopped,
or that thing on the plain will rule us all."


Chapter Twenty-Two

The blue streak broke against the castle, and Sovartus nearly pitched
out through the window as the building shook from the impact. He
clutched at the facing and managed to thrust himself back into the
tower. The magician glared at the unseen figure on Dodligia Plain, and
his face lit with hatred. He might have died in the fall had he not
been quick. To control such as the Thing of Power and then to die from
some base stupidity would be a cruel irony indeed.

Sovartus drew himself up to his full height and smiled. Time to end
this farce with his old classmate. The master of the Black Square
regarded his creation, which in turn stared back with unblinking eyes
of fire.

"Go," Sovartus commanded, "and swat me that bothersome insect!" The
magician waved his hand in a casting motion.

The Thing of Power, built of the Four Elements, turned away from Castle
Slott, moving more quickly than it seemed possible. Walking on legs
made from tornadoes, it took gigantic strides across the plain.

A line of blue shot from the seemingly empty plain toward the Thing of
Power, and a small spot on its earthy body blackened and smoked, but
the creature slowed not.

Sovartus grinned, looking to see if any of the children noticed. None
had, for each of the captives seemed to be in a stupor, eyes closed,
breath coming slowly.

No matter, the mage thought. It is enough that I see it!

Another line of blue fire scored the Thing of Power, but this time the
flash was dimmer, and the beam passed harmlessly through one of the
arms of spinning wind.

In a few moments the Thing of Power had dwindled, so that it seemed no
larger than a man seen across a wide street. A third blue flame arrowed
up from the ground and struck the creature, who was almost upon the
source.

As Sovartus watched, the awesome Thing of Power bent and raised one of
its arms. The arm came down hard, and the force of the blow shook the
ground, even into the castle, so that Sovartus felt the strike through
the soles of his boots.

That blow meant much to Sovartus, ah, yes. He knew then that Vitarius,
pupil to Hogistum, and his enemy, was no more. He had been snuffed out
with no more effort needed than to command it.

Nothing could stand in his way now, Sovartus knew, for there was no
power capable of withstanding the creature he had created and was
master of, no power on Earth. Not since the sinking of Atlantis had
such forces been under the direction of men; his triumph was as awesome
as the Thing of Power itself. It would live as long as he lived, and he
could live forever!

Sovartus continued to stare at the Thing of Power as it marched back
toward him. Soon the nations of the world would bow to him and offer
him all manner of tribute. Soon he would destroy cities, lay waste to
whole countrysides, slaughter armies, did not the people offer him his
due. Soon he would rule the world, and it would function to his whim-or
it would function not at all!

The thought of it filled Sovartus with black joy.

The passageway opened into an antechamber. Conan saw the backs of two
more of the hooded lizard-men as he stepped into the antechamber. The
lizard-men's attention lay elsewhere, and when Conan looked beyond
them, he saw what held their gazes: a thin man with black hair and a
pointed beard, dressed in a woven-hair robe, looking through a window.

"Sovartus," Kinna whispered next to Conan.

"At last," Conan said. He raised his sword.

Something must have alerted the two lizard-men, for they turned, as
one, to stare at Conan and Kinna. They raised their pikes.

"I'll take the one on the left!" Kinna said.

Conan hesitated not at all, but leaped to do battle with the hooded
figures. Sovartus glanced in his direction, then turned back to his
contemplation of whatever lay outside the window, as if he had not the
smallest of worries.

Knowing the lizard-men's speed and power gave Conan an advantage; he
did not try to fence, but rather went around the jabbing pike. A single
two-handed cut with his sword, braced for the shock, and Conan batted
his foe down. He spun just as Kinna jabbed her pike into her opponent's
hood, bringing forth a militant hiss from the reptilian creature. Conan
whipped his blade around and chopped into the thing's head; it went
down in silence. The big Cimmerian leaped into the tower room.

Eldia lay chained under a window; indeed, there were three others pent
in the same manner, and all looked to be either in deep sleep or in the
arms of death. Conan snarled his anger and took two steps toward
Sovartus.

The magician turned away from the window and waved one hand at Conan,
twirling his fingers as he did so.

Conan's sword handle suddenly grew hot, too hot to hold, even through
the thick leather wrapping the haft. He switched the sword to his
opposite hand, but the heat increased; the leather began to smoke, then
burst into flame. Conan dropped the sword. The blade flashed into
redness, then blue-white so bright that the Cimmerian had to look away.
There came a clap of noise, and when he looked back, the sword was
gone, leaving only a black mark upon the floor.

Behind him, Kinna yelled, then followed the clunk! of her pike hitting
the floor. There came another flash and thunderclap, and he knew her
weapon had been destroyed.

Undaunted, Conan sprang again, drawing the curved knife that had killed
Lemparius. It wore a spell, perhaps such was proof against Sovartus.

The knife pulled itself from Conan's grasp and spun away, to stick up
in a table nearby. Deviltry!

Conan growled in fury. He still had his hands, by Crom! The big
Cimmerian lunged, seeking to smash the thin man with his hammerlike
fists.

An invisible boot slammed into Conan's belly. His corded stomach
absorbed the blow, but it knocked him backward and off his feet.

Sovartus smiled and raised his hand. Another blow struck Conan, this
one from the side. He swept his hands about, looking for an opponent
with whom to grapple; there existed none, and yet a third blow crashed
into his head, dazing him.

Kinna tried to reach Conan, but some magic beset her as well, for she
fell back, gasping for breath. Conan came to his hands and knees, then
to his feet.

Sovartus laughed and raised his hand again. "Fool! You cannot contend
with me! I am your new god! Bow to me, and I shall spare you, as my
first worshipper!"

"Never!" Conan said.

The invisible boot caught Conan under the chin, knocking him onto his
back. He groaned involuntarily, sat up, and shook his head, struggling
to rise.

Sovartus looked on, still apparently amused.

Behind Sovartus, chained to the wall, Eldia awoke. Her eyes flickered
open. She blinked and looked at Conan, then at Sovartus.

Conan shook his head, this time in warning to Eldia to remain still.
The Cimmerian managed to get to one knee and one foot.

Eldia stared at Sovartus. She raised one hand and reached toward the
magician's strange robe. Sovartus must have heard something, for he
started to turn toward the girl.

Conan drew a deep breath and spat at the wizard. The man jerked his
attention back toward Conan. "For that, you will die, fool!" He started
to bring his hand down.

Suddenly, the back of Sovartus's robe erupted into flame. The wizard
spun. "What-?" But the robe only flared out, fanning the blaze higher.
Sovartus cursed and tore the robe from his body. His attention left the
massive youth.

Conan managed to regain his feet. He gathered his strength into his
legs and jumped. This time he reached his object: He locked his hands
like clamps upon Sovartus's throat. The two men fell, rolling through
the fiery robe upon the floor. Sovartus brought his own hands into a
grip upon Conan's neck. Though thin, the wizard had great strength, and
he was driven by desperation. Conan felt fingers like steel bars dig
into his flesh. He tightened his neck muscles and his grip, and
screamed in savage rage.

Sovartus's grip slackened. The wizard's face went dark red, shading to
purple; his eyes bulged from their sockets and blood ran from his nose;
his lips drew back from his too-white teeth.

After what seemed the lifetime of a god, Sovartus's hands left Conan's
neck, and he went limp.

A terrible sound broke over the castle, a wordless cry of rage and
agony that vibrated Conan to his depth. He stood and looked out through
the window.

The massive monster on the plain shook violently, waving its arms. It
screamed again, and a landslide rumbled along its body, dropping a
shower of dirt away from the torso. Its eyes flashed with living fire,
and lightning broke from its mouth as it screamed a third time. The
monster started toward the castle.

Conan found a pike. He thrust the weapon between the metal links
holding Eldia to the wail. He took a deep breath, and tore the chains
from their mounting. He turned toward Kinna. "Help her, and wake the
others if you can! The monster on the plain comes!"

Conan moved quickly around the chamber, breaking the chains that bound
the children, shaking the sleeping forms, trying to awaken them. The
three came to, but were still groggy.

The floor began to shake as the monster drew nearer. Conan risked a
glance at the plain again. The creature trembled and gyrated, and
seemed on the verge of collapse; great chunks of its body broke off and
tumbled away; the eyes of fire roared forth along with the lightnings,
and the winds of its limbs waxed and waned.

"Up!" Conan yelled. He snatched up a still-bleary-eyed girl and pointed
at the room's exit. "Out, fast! We do not want to be here when that
thing arrives!"

Kinna led, half-towing one of the boys. Eldia followed, being the most
alert, and Conan carried and dragged two of the children. They ran as
if a hellish beast followed, as indeed it did.

When they neared the place where the witch and werepanther had died,
Conan called a halt. "Slowly," he commanded, "lest we stir up the
killing-dust."

Conan led the way. As he stepped over the body of one of the
lizard-men, he paused. A large pack was strapped upon its back, and
from one corner protruded the point of a sword. Conan bent and
carefully opened the pack. Inside, he found clothing-his clothing!-and
his broadsword. He managed a small smile. This one had been the witch's
thrall, he guessed. He removed the sword and clothing, being careful to
keep the poison dust from stirring.

"Move," Conan said when his belongings were reclaimed.

The group followed the winding aisles downward, occasionally passing
the inert forms of lizard-men. These bodies bore no wounds, but Conan
guessed that the death of their master must have doomed them as well.

The Cimmerian led Kinna and the children from the constructed portion
of the castle and into the bowels of the mountain. A violent shudder
hit the rock, so strong that the fleeing band found itself shaken from
their feet to the floor.

"The monster has come home," Conan said. "I think it means to take the
castle with it when it goes."

The six stood and ran.

The journey seemed to take forever. Several times, the floor shifted so
much that footing was impossible. Once, a huge section of stone ceiling
broke loose and fell, crashing down with a roar, barely missing the
runners.

Finally, they reached the base of the mountain and the tunnel exit.
"This way," Conan yelled over the rumbling of the earth. "There are
horses, if they still live."

While the monster battering at the castle stood partway around the
mountain, the winds created by the tornadoes it bore as limbs raised
dust and leaves all around Conan as he ran. Past the grove of trees he
found the horses panicky, but still pent. With the thunder of the thing
tearing at the mountain all around them, Conan managed to get the
children and Kinna mounted before climbing onto a horse himself.

"Now, ride!" Conan commanded.

They rode, and fast.

Conan called a halt. The group turned to stare at the mountain-castle
they had recently left. The elemental monster tore at the mountain,
though the top of the castle itself was no more. Great chunks of
granite flew high into the air, some smaller bits flying even past
where Conan and the others sat upon their horses.

"Look!" Kinna said.

The thing reared and came down with both arms. It smashed into the
solid rock. The main part of the mountain shattered. With it went the
monster, dissolving into a massive cloud of rock dust and stone wind.

For a time no one said anything. Finally, Conan broke the silence: "It
is done. Over."

Riding back along the Dodligian road, Conan spotted a figure in the
distance, waving. He drew his sword. But as they moved closer he
grinned and sheathed his blade. No threat here, in this familiar
figure.

Eldia recognized the man then, and called out: "Vitarius!"

"Aye, Vitarius," the old man said as the riders drew nearer. "No one
thought to bring a horse for me, eh? Well, no matter, I can ride double
with Eldia, I suppose."

"We thought you might be . . ." Kinna began.

"Dead? Aye, Sovartus would have had it so. He lent the Thing of Power
to squash me. I lanced it a few times, but I was as a gnat to a
bullock. When it got too close, I chose to be elsewhere."

Conan looked around the bare plain. "That must have been some trick."

"I would take credit for it," Vitarius said, "but it was hardly
anything to brag about. I slipped into the entrance to one of the
whelves' tunnels and scuttled as deep as I could get. What the thing
smashed was merely a simple illusion. Those are what I do best."

"So I recall you saying," Conan said dryly.


Chapter Twenty-Three

"Well," Vitarius demanded, "are you going to tell me the tale or not?"

Conan grinned and related their adventures since last they had seen the
old mage. Vitarius nodded and made appropriate noises as he listened.
Occasionally, he interrupted with questions.

"But-what caused Sovartus's robe to take fire?"

Conan pointed at Eldia.

"Odd. I had thought that the children would have been drained of all
force by the creation of the Thing of Power."

Eldia nodded. "So it was. I no longer felt the fire within me when
Sovartus enspelled me. My fires were transported to the Thing. But when
I awoke and saw Conan injured, I somehow knew I still had a single
spark. So I sent my final flicker of heat into Sovartus's robe."

"And glad I am that she did," Conan said. As he spoke he unwrapped the
bundle of clothing he had retrieved from the dead lizard-man's pack.
While so doing, a shower of glittering green suddenly erupted from the
breeks he unrolled.

"What is this?" Kinna said.

Conan laughed. "The emeralds! Lemparius must have put them there,
thinking to retrieve them later! I purchased our supplies with but one
of these beauties, and there must be fifty of them!"

"You are rich," Kinna said.

Conan shook his head. "Nay, rather say we are rich. We shall share them
equally, for we all certainly earned them."

He apportioned the stones, and when he finished, each person had seven,
with two to spare. These he gave to Kinna. "You'll likely have more use
for them than I," he said. "You now have three new mouths to feed."

"Yes," she said, "I shall return to our land and build us a fine house;
we won't be poor. Will you go with us, Vitarius?"

The old man nodded. "Aye. A fire to warm my old bones and such good
company will suit me well enough. And I might teach the children a few
conjures, just for amusement, of course."

Kinna turned to Conan. "And what of you, Conan? You would be most
welcome in our house. And in my bed."

Conan shook his head. "My path lies elsewhere, Kinna. I traveled the
road to Nemedia when we met, and I would continue upon it."

"I understand. You would not be a farmer or a landlord, I cannot see
such for you. I shall remember you always."

"As I shall you," he said.

Conan watched the group ride away before he turned his own mount
westward, toward Numalia. He had a new horse, courtesy of Sovartus of
the Black Square, and emeralds worth twice the gold he had lost
crossing into Corinthia. All in all, not a bad bargain, considering he
was alive and whole to enjoy both.

He smiled, and rode off toward the setting sun.