CONAN AND THEMISTS OF DOOM

by

Roland Green

CONTENTS

Prologue , One , Two , Three , Four , Five , Six , Seven , Eight , Nine , Ten , Eleven , Twelve , Thirteen , Fourteen , Fifteen , Sixteen , Seventeen , Epilogue

DUST TO DUST!

The Lady stood in glory and grace and rested both hands lightly on thecaptive's forehead. He shivered, as if responding to this last humantouch—and then between one breath and the next, he was no more. Forthe space of another breath, a column of silver dust in the shape of a manstood before the Lady.

Then she flung her hands downward, fingers pointing at the cup. Thedust leaped, losing human semblance. It rose to the ceiling, then poureddown into the cup. The crimson fire within flickered briefly, seemed aboutto change color, then steadied at a gesture and two soft words from theLady of the Mists.

Conan Adventures by Tor Books

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Conan the Triumphant by Robert Jordan

Conan the Magnificent by Robert Jordan

Conan the Victorious by Robert Jordan

Conan the Destroyer by Robert Jordan

Conan the Valorous by John Maddox Roberts

Conan the Fearless by Steve Perry

Conan the Renegade by Leonard Carpenter

Conan the Raider by Leonard Carpenter

Conan the Champion by John Maddox Roberts

Conan the Defiant by Steve Perry

Conan the Warlord by Leonard Carpenter

Conan the Marauder by John Maddox Roberts

Conan the Valiant by Roland Green

Conan the Hero by Leonard Carpenter

Conan the Bold by John Maddox Roberts

Conan the Indomitable by Steve Perry

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Conan the Great by Leonard Carpenter

Conan the Guardian by Roland Green

Conan the Formidable by Steve Perry

Conan the Outcast by Leonard Carpenter

Conan the Relentless by Roland Green

Conan the Rogue by John Maddox Roberts

Conan the Savage by Leonard Carpenter

Conan of the Red Brotherhood by Leonard Carpenter

Conan and the Gods of the Mountain by Roland Green

Conan and the Treasure of Python by John Maddox Roberts

Conan, Scourge of the Bloody Coast by Leonard Carpenter

Conan and the Manhunters by John Maddox Roberts

Conan at the Demon's Gate by Roland Green

Conan the Gladiator by Leonard Carpenter

Conan and the Amazon by John Maddox Roberts

Conan and the Mists of Doom by Roland Green

Conan the Hunter by Sean A. Moore

CONANAND THEMISTS OF DOOM

ROLAND GREEN

TOR

A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

NEW YORK

NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be awarethat this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold anddestroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher hasreceived any payment for this "stripped book."

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in thisbook are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents ispurely coincidental.

CONAN AND THE MISTS OF DOOM Copyright © 1995 by Roland Green

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portionsthereof, in any form.

Cover art by Keegan

A Tor book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

ISBN: 0-812-52494-2

First edition: August 1995

Printed in the United States of America

0987654321

Prologue

The valley slashed into the flank of the Kezankian Mountains like asword cut. The entrance deceived the casual eye, being but a narrow cleftin a spur of Mount Goadel. The mist often swirling about the heightsaided the deception, giving the cleft the air of a place uncanny andunwholesome, where things a sane man would shun might lurk in wait.

Often the wind rose, driving away the mist, but raising a howling as ofdemons and lost souls as it whipped around the rocks. The wind-crylikewise kept travelers from being too curious about the valley.

It had been many years since travelers had allowed themselves to becurious about the valley, or anything else in this part of the Kezankianrange. It was far from any place that concerned civilized folk, and tooplainly a good home for bandits, outlaws, and still more debased forms ofhumanity. There were even tales of tribes of ape-men, kin to those of theHimelian peaks in Vendhya, dwelling above the snow line.

The man who led the column of soldiers up the slope toward the cleftknew more than most of the truth about the valley. It had indeed beenhome to bandits and outlaws. Some of these now followed him, won toobedience—if not loyalty—by gold in one hand and a whip in the other.Others, he and his company had slain with their own hands. Still othershad fled, to become bleaching bones when the vultures were done withthem.

About ape-men, Captain Muhbaras knew little and cared less. If theydid not trouble him, he would leave them in whatever peace their loftyhomes might afford them. He personally doubted that any creaturedwelling among eternal snow and ice could have the wits of a louse, butthen he had grown to manhood among the gurgling wells and treessagging with ripe fruit of a Khorajan nobleman's estate.

Long-legged and unburdened save for a shirt of fine Vendhyan mail andan open-faced helm of Nemedian style, Muhbaras had reached the cleftwell ahead of his column. Now he turned back to watch it mount the slope,and to count heads for straggling or desertion. Small fear of the latter,when all went in fear of the Lady of the Mists, who could see to the edge ofthe world, but there were always fools in any company.

One could hardly tell bandits from Khorajans or nomads; all wore the

same robes and headdress, sand-hued or dirty white, with boots and beltsof camel's hide and a curved sword and dagger thrust into the belts. Someamong each folk carried bows and quivers, but a keen-eyed man wouldhave quickly seen that the bows were unstrung and the quivers boundtightly shut with leather thongs.

No man approached the entrance to the Valley of the Mists with readyarrows or strung bow. Not without the Lady's consent, and thus far thatconsent had not been forthcoming.

What had been forthcoming were harsh punishments for those whoflouted the Lady's will. Punishments so dire, indeed, that those who hadsuffered them might have gladly changed places with the captives in themiddle of the column. Their death would have been no less unclean, underthe Lady's magic, but it would have been swifter and far less painful.

There were ten of the captives, bound into a single file by stout thongsabout their waists. Their hands and feet were free, which meant vigilanceby their guards, as the Lady misliked pursuing escapers with her spells,lest this endanger her secrets. There was hardly any choice, however, as noman with hands bound could mount the slopes here. Nor could a band ofthis size carry many helpless burdens over the rocks and along the ravines.

Escapes were few enough in truth, thanks to the potion the Lady'sapothecary doled out to each band of raiders. If one could get enough of itdown a captive's gullet, the man, woman, or child would be as docile as asheep for up to three days. Muhbaras had scented some familiar herbs inthe potion, and others he could not name; he suspected that the real secretof the potion was not knowable by common men.

The captives were seven men, if you counted one youth barely oldenough to show a beard, and three women. Two with grave wounds andone who had fought to the last against swallowing the potion werevultures' fodder, as well as a warning to anyone who would pursue theraiders.

Muhbaras counted the captives twice, although there was no escapethis far into the mountains for anyone who could neither fly like a bird norsink into solid rock like a spirit. He made a gesture of aversion at that lastthought; some of the tribes hereabouts commanded potent magic. Itwould not be well done to capture one of their shamans or the man's kin.

Then he turned toward the cleft in the rock, drew his sword (Nemedianwork like his helm), and raised it hilt-first. He saw no one and heardnothing save the whisper of the wind on distant slopes, but he knew thatkeen eyes watched for still keener minds.

Crimson light darted from the cleft, striking a jewel in the sword's hilt.The jewel glowed like an oil lamp, but no oil lamp ever gave out such hues,not only a half-score different shades of crimson but hints of azure,emerald, amber—

"We have returned," the captain said. "We have ten. In the service ofthe Lady, we ask blessing."

The light darted out again. This time the crimson glow danced alongthe ground until it drew a complete circle around the column. Muhbarastried not to think how much it resembled a noose, ready to be drawn tight.He told himself that he and his men had survived this rite a score of timeswithout so much as a singed hair.

Reason and memory were of small use against the dark fear of oldmagic, coiling through a man's guts and gnawing at his will like a rat at acorpse. The captain felt a cold sweat creep across his skin under the mailand padding.

"In the service of the Lady, the blessing is given," the voice said. Thecaptain tried for the tenth time to find something in the voice by which hemight recognize the speaker. It would be of little value if he did, save forproving that not all the Lady's secrets were impenetrable.

The men behind him were looking at him, and he remembered that thenext part of the rite was his.

"In the service of the Lady, we beg entrance to the Valley of the Mists."

The captain wondered, not quite idly, what might happen if he usedsome word less abject than "beg." So far he had lacked the courage to findout—as much for the sake of those who had followed him from Khoraja asfor his own sake. He wondered if those who survived would receive theirpromised gold and estates, but doubting the word of Khoraja's rulers didnot make him ready to throw away the lives of his men. He had held hisduty as a captain near to his heart, long before he heard of the Lady of theMists or laid eyes on the Kezankian Mountains.

"In the service of the Lady, entrance to the Valley of the Mists isgranted."

He heard light footsteps, quickly lost in the grind and growl of stonesshifting, which always sounded to him like the bowels of the mountainsthemselves rumbling. The stone-noise ended, the light of torches glowedfrom the cleft, and two figures stepped swiftly into view.

One was tall and dark, the other shorter and fair, and both werewomen. They wore silvered helmets, displaying on either side a golden

ornament in the form of a scorpion's tail, brown leather corseletsreinforced with iron plates, loose breeches in the Turanian style, of heavysilk in a green so dark it was almost black, and boots whose style thecaptain did not recognize.

Each had a sword and dagger, and each carried a Turanian recurvedbow and quiver of well-made arrows. Their faces under the helmets andbodies under the armor were good to look at. The sure grace of theirmovements and the stillness in their eyes made it clear no man but a foolwould hope for more, and fools would meet weapons the women knew wellhow to use.

Northern folk had tales of shield-maidens, daughters of the gods, whoroamed the earth seeking the souls of dead warriors, or so the captain hadheard. He had thought them barbarians' fancies once; now he was not sosure. All of the Lady's Maidens had the same look, of being able to see intoa man's soul and judge him.

It was that look, as much as their weapons and armor, that had kept theMaidens untouched. That, and knowing that what the Lady had done todisobedient archers would be as a child's tantrum to what she would do indefense of her Maidens.

"Any children?" the dark Maiden said.

"None."

"As well. Strong spirits are needed to feed the Mist."

"The strongest spirit, we freed back near the village. We could not forcethe potion down him without risking hurt to our people, and pursuitseemed closer than usual."

Why was he explaining himself to this madwoman, servant of a greatermadwoman? Perhaps because he had seen her on guard more often thanany other, and she looked less grim than most. The fair one, now—a man'shand would freeze on touching her, long before his manhood wasanywhere near her.

'This is not well."

"It did not seem my decision, to sacrifice the Lady's servants."

"That is wisdom."

They continued to speak as the raiders filed past. Some of the prisonershad enough awareness to open their eyes and look about them, but thepoint of a sword in the back was enough to discourage laggards. At lastthe tail of the column vanished among the rocks, and Muhbaras was alone

on the mountainside with the Maidens.

"You are well, I trust?" the fair one said. Not for the first time, she madea question about the captain's health sound like a death sentence.

"I am well, and fit to come within," he replied, returning to ritualphrases.

Which I would not do if I did not think your mistress needed my menmore than they need her!

One

The desert lay north of Zamboula, south of Khauran, west of the mightyrealm of Turan, now burgeoning in its strength under the lash of its boldnew King Yezdigerd. It belonged to none of these.

Indeed, the land belonged to no one. Even names on it were few, andthose mostly oases. The nomads were divided among a score of tribes,seldom at peace with one another; each tribe had its own names for thewadis, the depressions, the dunes.

The harsh sky and its blazing sun might have leached all the color fromthe land. The sand lay pale ochre and umber, the rocks seemed bakedwhite as bones, and even the sparse vegetation was pallid and dusty.

Well off to the north, dust trails crept above the horizon. Still farther,barely visible, rose patches of deeper green. Together they told of caravanroutes and cultivated lands. Only in the crystalline air of the desert wouldthey have been visible at all, for they were a good day's ride on a stouthorse.

Nearer at hand, a man standing on a well-placed dune might have seenanother dust cloud rising to the sky. Before long, he would have seen thedark shapes of more than a dozen riders at the base of the cloud, growingeven as he watched.

Remaining beyond bowshot, he would have taken them for a band ofnomad warriors. Their garb was certainly that of the nomads, or of anyman who braves a forge-hot desert journey—loose, flowing robes fromcrown to toe. All were well armed, mostly with long, curved swords orbows.

Closer up, a man who knew the tribes of the East might have doubtedthat these men were native to the desert. One saw silver on the hilts ofsome weapons, tattoos on bronzed cheeks, and subtle differences in the

tooled leather of the saddles and bridles. Yet most of the men and theirmounts could have ridden into a nomad camp without drawing a secondglance.

All except one, the leader. Few deserts ever spawned a man so gigantic,who needed a horse larger than any nomad ever bestrode to carry himeven at a trot. Nor did those ice-blue eyes first open under any desert sun,and the blade that rode at the man's hip was as straight as his broad back.

Conan of Cimmeria was riding for Koth, with fourteen loyal Afghulissworn to see him safely to that destination. Perhaps also they had hopes ofplucking loot from the war in Koth.

The man on the dune might have stood watching until not only Conanbut the rearmost of the riders was out of sight. Had he done so, however,he would shortly have seen a new dust cloud sprout on the horizon,moving swiftly on the trail of Conan's band. The Cimmerian and hisAfghulis were not alone in the desert.

In the forefront of the band, Conan was not the first to see the ridersbehind. That modest honor went to a rider named Farad, of the Bataritribe. He spurred his mount up beside the Cimmerian's and shouted intothe northerner's ear.

"We are followed. Many more than we are, from the dust they make."

Conan turned to look eastward. Farad's eyes were keen and hisjudgment sound. The riders behind had to be at least fifty, thoughprobably not more than a hundred—which hardly mattered, as even fiftywas four times the strength of Conan's band.

Nor did it matter much who they were, unless by some improbablechance they were a caravan gone astray or Zamboulans. Neither was likelyto be found in this stretch of desert; more likely by far were nomads orTuranians, and neither would meet Conan and his men as friends.

In some nomad dialects the word "stranger" was also the word for"enemy." Among every nomad tribe, anyone who had wealth to take andno kin to avenge their death was fair game. The horses and weapons ofConan's band would be enough to sign their death warrant with anynomads numerous enough to take them, to say nothing of what Conanbore in a small pouch next to his skin.

That small sack of jewels was all his profit from two years among theAfghulis. That and a whole skin, which he supposed was more than manykept who went among the Afghulis in their native mountains.

Binding the scattered, brawling tribes of the Afghulis into a single hosthad at first seemed like a good idea. Conan knew his own skill and theprowess of the Afghuli warriors, likewise the weaknesses of everyneighboring realm. A united Afghuli people could take their pick.

The Afghulis did not seem to care overmuch for this bright vision. If itmeant fighting beside a man whose great-grandfather had insulted theirs,they would rather fight the man (or perhaps the towering foreigner whosuggested that they forgive the insult).

It was Conan's luck, not to mention ready blade and stout thews, thatkept his hide intact. With little but what he had on his person and nofriends but those who owed him blood-debts, he had fled the mountains.Fighting their way through bandits and bears alike, they came to hearrumors of war in Koth.

Westward they rode, the Afghulis as eager as Conan to try their hand atwinning loot and glory from the troubles of Koth. They had to ride wellclear of the borders of Turan, however, for in that realm there was a priceon Conan's head. Under King Yildiz's mild reign, few Turanians wouldhave cared to gamble their lives on taking Conan's. Yezdigerd was not hisfather, and knew how to use both fear and greed to make men bold, evenfoolhardy.

Conan looked eastward again. He thought he saw a second dust cloudon the horizon, but after a mo-ment knew it was only a dust devil, acreature of the wind. But the first cloud had grown larger, and now hethought he saw the glint of sunlight on steel.

The nomads wore no armor. In this land, armored riders were mostlikely Turanians. Conan looked westward, studying the ground with apracticed eye. He had fought in every kind of land from glacier to jungle,and knew what each offered to a hunted band.

To the west, the desert rolled away under the sun, offering little butsand and scrub. Anywhere in that emptiness, Conan's band would standout like a pea on a platter. Once in bowshot, the enemy would have easyprey, unless night came—and it was only early afternoon.

To the north, however, a sprawling gray mass thrust its rocky headabove the sand. Any who reached this ridge might lurk in its cracks andcrevices until nightfall dimmed the enemy's sight, then slip away. Atworst, it offered shelter for archery and ambushes, likewise high groundfor a last stand if the odds against escape grew too long.

Conan grinned at the prospect of giving King Yezdigerd a few morewidows' pensions to pay. This was the kind of fight that made his blood

sing and that had made his name in all Hyborian lands and more than afew others. Long odds, a need for both cunning and strength, and stoutbrothers-in-arms to tell the tales afterward or keep him company in deathif that was his fate.

No one worthy of the name of warrior could complain about the battleConan faced.

His only remaining problem was to be sure that the battle would be onhis chosen ground, not that of the

Turanians. A good deal of open desert lay between Conan's men and theridge, bare of cover but likely full of holes and cracks that could catch ahorse's leg and doom its rider.

Conan had read a few books on the art of war, and thought most ofthem tried to make into wizardry something that was for the most partcommon sense. In none of them had he found one maxim he knew to betrue: The horse that has never stumbled before will stumble when youare riding for your life .

He waved toward the ridge, while turning in the saddle to shout at theAfghulis. "We'll perch there until nightfall. Archers, to the rear, but I'll gutthe man who wastes arrows." The Afghulis were mostly not the finishedhorse-archers of Turan, among the best in the world; but their pursuerswould make a large target.

The archers reined in a trifle, the rest dug in spurs, and dust swirledaround Conan's band as it re-formed for its last ride. Dust also swirled,higher and thicker than before, to their rear. Conan cast a final lookbehind him, thought he recognized Turanian banners, then put his headdown and his heels in to ride for his life.

In a bare rock chamber in the wall of the Valley of the Mists, a womansat cross-legged and alone on a bearskin thrown across a Turanian rug.Before her stood a tall wine cup of gilded bronze, with four handles and abroad base displaying archaic, even ancient runes known only amongsorcerers and talked of in whispers even among them.

The Lady was as bare as the chamber, save for a necklace, bracelets,and coronet of fresh mountain creeper. A Maiden had plucked it in thenight and brought it to the chamber before dawn, where it had remainedin cool shadows. It was still so fresh that the last drops of dew trickledfrom the crinkled gray-green leaves down between the Lady's breasts.

The Lady of the Mists—she did not choose to remember any other

name—reached under the bearskin and drew out a heavy disk ofage-blackened bronze. One could barely make out under the patina ofcenturies the sigil of Kull of Atlantis.

The Lady knew not whether some potent Atlantean spell still lurked inthe bronze. She only knew that nothing else that had come into her handsso readily let her work her own.

That was as well. Workers in magic did best and lived longest (if theycared for that, as the Lady did) if they worked most with the magic theyknew and commanded—as well as any mortal could command power fromthe realms of night.

She shifted her position with the languid grace of a cat half-roused fromsleep, until she could reach the cup. She set the bronze disk atop the cup,so that it rested a hairsbreadth below the rim, completely covering thecup.

The movement sent more dew trickling between her breasts. No livingman would have gazed on those breasts unstirred, nor did the rest of theLady's form repel the eye any more than her breasts. She could have filledher bed more readily than most women, had she sought that—or had hereyes been other than they were.

They were of human size and shape, but of a golden hue seen in no raceof men. She also had the vertical pupils of a cat, and these were anightmare black against the yellow.

Any man seeing the Lady's form would have judged her human, andjudged truly. Then, coming closer, a glimpse of her eyes would havechanged his mind and likely sent him fleeing, faster than anything but theLady's laughter could pursue. Or, if she took offense, the Lady's magic.

The Lady pressed a finger to the cup, moving it to see if its bronze sealwas well in place. No rattle greeted her. She smiled, and her eyesnarrowed, like those of a cat looking, as they so often do, into a worldbeyond human knowledge.

Then she rested both hands lightly on the bronze and began to sing. Thecup quivered at first, then steadied, but around cup and Lady alike acrimson light began to spread.

Conan was now as careful not to look to his rear as any Aquilonianknight leading a charge. He did not do it for the knight's reasons of notwishing to show doubt that those sworn to him would follow steadfastedlyin his wake.

The Cimmerian kept his eyes to the front or the side because there laythe ridge that offered the only hope of safety, as well as any number ofhidden dangers. The holes of burrowing rodents to snap a horse's leg like arotten twig, soft sand to bring horse and man down together, nests of aspsto give a lingering death if disturbed—these could end the race asthoroughly as being overtaken by the Turanians.

So could nomads or Turanians lying in ambush.

The nomads held no love for the Turanians, and even less now in theface of Yezdigerd's growing strength. That would not stay their hands for amoment if they thought they could buy a Turanian captain's goodwill withthe heads of the Cimmerian and his following.

This was no land for any man who cared to live without eyes in the backof his head and his hand close to the hilt of his sword. Conan had lived noother way for more years than he had fingers, and in their feud-riddenland the Afghulis sucked in wariness with their mothers' milk.

"Conan!" The call rose above the thunder of hooves. "The Turanianssend a band ahead, faster than the rest!"

Conan recognized the voice. It was Farad, first man among the Afghulis.He shouted back, without turning his head.

"They think to wolf-pack us. Time for the archers to make them thinkagain."

"Or stop thinking at all!" Farad shouted back, battle-joy in his cry.

"Wolf-packing" was a pursuer's sending one band after another to forcethe pursued to a pace their mounts could not sustain. In time the pursuedwould have stumbling, foaming, dying mounts, at the mercy of the lastfresh riders of the pursuer.

It suggested that the Turanians were regularly sworn horsemen of thehost, or at worst the better sort of irregular, such as Conan himself had ledduring his service in Turan. Neither was often found this far into thedesert—or rather, had not been found here before Yezdigerd took thethrone of Turan, with ambitions to take everything else he could lay hishands on.

The ground began to rise before Conan's eyes. He studied it. Was therea ravine off to the right that led to the base of the ridge and offered shelterfrom arrows? The Cimmerian slowed to a trot, patting the neck of hisfoam-flecked horse reassuringly.

"Not much farther, lady," he muttered to the horse. Not much farther toat least brief safety or a swift death. They would find nothing else under

this desert sun.

The ravine was narrow and its floor studded with rocks thrusting upwildly, as if flung down by a mad giant. No passage there, at least no swiftone—and while the Afghulis were threading their way through the rocks,the Turanians could seize one side of the ravine and send down a hail ofarrows.

Conan's men would reach the rocks in the open or not at all.

The Cimmerian's spurs went in again. The mare whickered in protest,blew foam from her mouth, and gathered her legs under her.

"Come on, you sons of dogs!" Conan roared. "Or are you going to liedown for Turanians, of all the pox-ridden folk on earth!"

On staggering horses, some leaving trails of blood, the Afghulisfollowed. Conan risked a look behind and saw that the first band of thewolf pack had fallen back. Fallen back, moreover, onto ground already welladorned with fallen men and horses. Some still struggled, as the rest of theTuranians rode on past or sometimes over them.

The ridge loomed ahead. Conan drove spurs deeper. The mareresponded with what had to be the last of her strength. Gravel and sandflew up about her hooves, like foam from the ram of a war galley.

Another look back. The center of the Turanians was advancing in a solidmass, but on either flank bands were breaking off.

So they were going to surround the ridge, were they? No one but a foolwould fail to do that, and fools did not command Turanian horsemen allthat often. More than one captain and more than one book on war hadtold Conan what his own sense said: Never trust your enemy to be awitling .

The thud of the mare's hooves on the ground changed pitch. The groundwas harder now, with rock just under the sand and gravel. The otherriders reached the hard ground, and half a hundred hooves drummedtheir way toward the rough ground.

Behind, the Turanian horns gave tongue again, and this time a drumjoined them. Conan spat from a desert-dry and dust-filled mouth. Thedrum was no good news; often as not, the Turanians used it to summonup reinforcements.

Let them summon all the host of Turan. We can still give them a battlethose who survive it will not forget.

The vanguard of the Turanians breasted the slope, and sunlight flamed

on mail sleeves as half a score of archers nocked and drew as one man.

The crimson glow spread from the cup until, to one looking into thechamber, the Lady might have seemed embedded in the heart of agigantic ruby. Only her lips moved with the murmuring of her spell, andher breast with her shallow breathing. A keen eye might have seen atremor in a finger or the muscle of one bare and supple thigh, butotherwise the Lady might have been the image of a sorceress at her magic,carved by a master sculptor.

A low-pitched thrumming began, at first seeming remote, then drawingcloser, as if men bore toward the cave a great drum on which they werebeating softly. The sound swelled until one would have said there wasmore than one drum.

Then came soft footsteps and what might have been a muffled cough.Two of the Maidens entered, leading between them one of the captives.The captive was a man of middle years, a hard-faced peasant with thehooked nose of the Kezankian hill folk and little hair on hisparchment-hued scalp.

The captive's hands were bound behind his back with a rough but stoutcord of marsh grass. Otherwise he wore nothing—not even the aspect ofone awake and aware. His eyes were as vacant as a newborn babe's,shifted about altogether at random, and showed no animation even whentheir gaze fell upon the splendid form of the Lady of the Mist.

The Maidens themselves had now cast off their warriors' garb and woreonly white silk loin-guards and, draped over one shoulder, long cords ofthe same marsh grass. Woven among the grass were amber-hued vinesand woolen thread in all the colors ever imagined in the rainbow, let aloneseen.

The Lady of the Mists now flung up both hands. A waterfall of sparkspoured from her fingertips, silver blazing amidst the crimson. The sigil ofKull on the lid of the cup drew the sparks as a lodestone draws iron. Theypoured down upon it and vanished into it.

Another gesture by long-fingered, slender hands. The lid rose from thecup. Within lay fire of a crimson yet brighter than the glow filling thechamber. It might have been a blacksmith's forge heated to the utmost,yet neither smoke, heat, nor flame rose from the cup.

The Maidens saw the cup's fire with waking eyes, and blinked. Thecaptive saw nothing, and only the gods knew what passed through as

much of a mind as the potion had left him.

If, that is, the gods had not altogether forsaken this cave, its invoking ofancient powers, and its tampering with the laws of both gods and men.

The sigil-marked lid rose higher, wafting toward the ceiling of thechamber as light as thistledown on the breeze, for all that it weighed morethan a steel battle helm. A beckoning gesture from the Lady, and thecaptive took a step forward. Another gesture, another step.

Now he stood almost above the cup. The fire within it tinted his skinuntil he seemed a bronze statue. A third gesture, and the bindingsunknotted themselves and fell to the floor. One of the Maidens stopped topick them up.

As she straightened, the Lady made a final gesture. The captive bentover, and thrust both hands straight into the crimson fire blazing withinthe cup.

Still no smoke, still no flame, not the slightest reek of burning flesh. Yetthe man stiffened as if he had been turned to stone. His eyes and mouthopened— and both blazed with the same crimson fire. His scant remaininghair rose on his scalp.

The Lady stood in glory and grace and rested both hands lightly on thecaptive's forehead. He shivered, as if responding to this last humantouch—and then between one breath and the next, he was no more. Forthe space of another breath, a column of silver dust in the shape of a manstood before the Lady.

Then she flung her hands downward, fingers pointing at the cup. Thedust leaped, losing human semblance. It rose to the ceiling, then poureddown into the cup. The crimson fire within flickered briefly, seemed aboutto change color, then steadied at a gesture and two soft words from theLady of the Mists.

The Lady resumed her seat, casting only a brief glance at the lid floatingabove, a briefer glance at the two Maidens. Her hands and lips movedbriefly, in a silence wherein one might have imagined unwholesome beingsfrom beyond the world listening— listening for the sound of prey, or theLady's bidding.

If the Lady had ever held discourse with such, she did not do so now.Instead her bidding was to the Maidens. They knelt briefly before her, andshe rested a hand on each smooth, youthful brow. Each woman shiveredas with a light fever at her mistress's touch, then each rose with almost asmuch grace as hers and stepped backward out of the chamber.

The Lady took a deep breath, and this time her words were five, none ofthem soft. They were a command, in the language of Shem, a command tothe Maidens waiting outside the chamber's door.

"Bring in the next sacrifice!" was the command of the Lady of the Mists.

Two

Conan's band had borne a charmed life until now. But as the Afghulisbreasted the slope, the first man went down. His name was Rastam, andhe was old enough to have a son who had ridden beside him on a raid.

That was all the Cimmerian knew about the man, but it was enoughthat he would not die faceless and nameless among strangers. "Not evenan enemy deserves such a fate, and ten times over not a man who hasfollowed you," was a motto of Khadjar, once captain of Turanian irregularhorse and giver of much wisdom to a certain young Cimmerian then newto the Turanian service.

Rastam's horse was dead, but the man himself only wounded. Throughthe dust Conan saw him roll clear of his stricken mount, leaving a trail ofblood in the sand. Then he rose, casting aside a broken bow and drawinghis tulwar.

The dust blinded the leading Turanian riders more than it did Conan,let alone Rastam. They were hard upon him before they saw him. A horsescreamed and bucked convulsively as the Afghuli hamstrung it with thetulwar, then neatly slashed the falling rider's head from his shoulders.

A second Turanian rode up; Rastam leaped and dragged him from thesaddle, and both men fell. Both stood, but Rastam had one arm aroundthe other's neck and was holding him as a shield against Turanian arrows.

He cut two more foes out of the saddle and mutilated three horsesbefore someone finally worked around behind him and put arrows into hisback. Even then he had the strength to cut his living shield's throat beforehe died.

To the left Conan now saw a high but narrow gap in the rocks. TheAfghulis had seen it, too, and were swerving hard in its direction. Onemount lost its footing on a patch of loose stones. Its rider went down withit and did not move again after his mount lurched to its feet and hobbledoff with its comrades.

Conan cursed in a fury at many things, not least of all himself. Had heparted with some of his jewels to buy camels for his band, they could have

crossed the desert far to the south, well away from Turanian patrols.

But what might have been could never now be. Conan had learned thatearly and often, so it was not in him to spend much time repining overmistakes. Besides, showing some of the jewels could well have made morethan camel dealers profoundly curious about the northern giant's wealth.Also, the desert might hold no Turanians, but it still held more than a fewnomads, unless one ventured so far south beyond the last oases that onehad to cross the Devil's Anvil or other places where more travelers lefttheir bones than reached their destinations.

The Cimmerian kept the mare moving while his eyes searched the rocksfor a better refuge than the cleft. Behind those eyes was a hillman's bloodand a seasoned warrior's experience, but they did not find what theysought.

"Dismount!" Conan shouted. He used a dialect of Afghuli that all of hisband understood but few Turanians were likely to know. The pursuing foewas reining in and holding their distance, but they were still withinhearing.

"Dismount!" he repeated, and gestured at the cleft. "Drive your horseswithin, then climb to where you overlook them. Archers, on guard."

Nods said that some understood the Cimmerian's plan. If the horsescould not be taken to safety, then their next best use was as bait. Seekingto drive away their prey's mounts, the Turanians would be forced to comeat them either up the steep slope or through the mouth of the cleft. If thefirst, then archers could play with them. If the second, then one manmight bar the passage of a score.

Conan also knew who that one man must be. He flung himself out of thesaddle, drawing his broadsword as he did. He snatched a short-handledaxe from the saddle as he landed, then slapped the mare on the rump. Shetrotted off after the other horses.

A fool or two were still mounted, gaping about them so that Conanexpected to see an arrow sprout from their throats at any moment. Heopened his mouth to curse them, but Farad spoke first.

Or rather, he roared like an angry lion. "Sons of hornless rams and baldewes, dismount and climb! We draw the Turanians in to their deaths.They are near-women, weaned on the vomit of diseased dogs. A few moredead and they will turn tail!"

Conan scarcely believed that himself and doubted that Farad did either.But the words made the last Afghulis dismount and begin to climb. As

they did, a bold Turanian rode toward the cleft—then pitched out of thesaddle, dead before he struck the ground. A second arrow took his mountin the throat, and horse and would-be hero mingled their blood on therocks.

At least one Afghuli archer had found a secure vantage and was usingthe height to give his shafts useful additional range. Conan saw theadvancing Turanian line waver, then halt as if a ditch yawned fathomsdeep before them. None wished to be the next to die; none doubted thatthere were enough archers ahead to bring death wherever they wished.

Perhaps the Turanians could be pricked by enough arrows into acting like the low creatures Farad had named them.

And perhaps whales might grow feathers.

More likely, the Turanians would surround the rocks at a safe distanceand send messengers for aid. If they did not close in before the aidarrived—

Conan put the "ifs" firmly out of his mind as a score of Turaniansdismounted and began to climb the slope on foot. Others shot from theirsaddles, aiming at the climbing Afghulis. Many arrows cracked andsparked on rocks. No Afghulis fell, and one man snatched up a doublehandful of arrows, then made a vulgar gesture with them at the archersbelow.

Sword in hand, Conan raced for the entrance to the cleft. Arrows nowrose from the Turanian ranks, to whistle about his ears. None struck theswift-moving Cimmerian, and the arrows ended abruptly when two camedown in the ranks of the Turanian foot. Curses now filled the air instead ofarrows; and for a moment Conan dared hope that the Turanians wouldmake war on one another.

The hope faded a moment later, but before it vanished, Conan hadreached the mouth of the cleft and counted the horses within. Some borewounds and all would need rest and, if possible, water before they couldmove on, but all lived. Then, moving swiftly, he sought a place to wait forthe Turanians.

Conan did not have to wait for long.

The Lady of the Mists stared at the cup before her. It could only be afanciful notion, or perhaps a sending of some hostile magic, that the cupwas staring back at her.

Ten captives—ten vessels of the life essence was a better name for them

here and now—had stood before the Lady. All ten had given their lifeessence into what lay within the cup—and even the Lady did not care tosearch too hard for a name for that.

In magic, a true name commonly gave one power over him whose nameone knew. With what lay within the cup, the Lady judged—nay, to betruthful, feared —that knowing its name would give it power, to reach outand command her .

What might come of that, she did not know, nor did she have theslightest wish to find out.

The Lady knelt, bowed her head, twined her fingers across her breasts,and touched the sigil-bearing cup lid with her thoughts. It wavered, thenfloated, still lightly as thistledown, to resume its place atop the cup. Nosound came, not even the faintest rattle.

A bubbling sigh, as of some vast and unwholesome creature in its lastmoment of life, loud enough to raise echoes although there were none togive ear to them. Then the last of the crimson glow seemed to drain intothe stone floor of the chamber, as if a cup of wine had been flung downupon sand.

The chamber returned to its natural colors, but the mind of the Lady ofthe Mists did not return to the natural world. She could not allow thatuntil the ritual was altogether complete.

As the Mist took life essences into itself, it gained more and moreawareness. Soon it would be able to touch the Lady's mind, or at least seekto do so. She knew quite well what could happen if it succeeded, and hadtherefore no intention of allowing this to happen. She might in time bindthe Mist so that a linking of flesh-mind and Mist-mind would be prudent,but that time was far away.

The Lady rose and held both hands before her in a beckoning gesture.The two Maidens who had brought the cup entered the chamber, followedby two more, similarly clad.

The two newcomers brought long shoulder poles, from which hung astout harness of leather that might have seemed gilded to an unknowingeye. The "gilding" was in truth the trace of a spell so old that no one couldsay what folk had first cast it. It bound what lay within the cup, andlikewise the life essences, so that they might travel safely through thenatural world outside the chamber to their destination.

The Maidens stood, two before and two behind, resting the poles ontheir shoulders. Then they closed their eyes, as the Lady of the Mists

raised her hands again, and this time chanted softly.

The cup lurched into the air, not light as thistledown now but more likea gorged vulture trying to find safety in the air as the hyenas approach. Itlurched and wobbled from side to side as the Lady's magic commanded itacross the spear's length of rock floor that separated it from the harness.

" Huk !" the Lady said. It was neither word, nor spell. It sounded morelike the spitting of the king of all asps. The cup wavered once more, thensettled into place in the harness.

Without anyone raising a hand, let alone setting it upon the leather, theharness wound itself tightly about the cup. In moments the contents couldnot have spilled had it been full to the brim with the finest Poitanianvintages.

There was no other way to deal with the cup when the life essencesseethed within it. The Lady remembered one foolish Maiden, it seemedyears ago, who had tried to steady the cup with her bare hand.

She drew back naught but a charred stump; and when she held theruined limb close to her eyes, they smouldered and charred in theirsockets too. She did not, however, die. There were in the end uses for her,even though she could not surrender her life essence to the Mist.

Her injuries had too greatly wounded her life essence, but she still hadher life. Before it left her, many of the soldiers without had satedthemselves so thoroughly that the mere thought of a woman was unknownto them for some days.

The four Maidens now bearing the cup seemed to have profited by theirsister's fate. They stood as might temple images, waiting to come to life ata magical command.

The command came—once again, at the raised hand of the Lady of theMists. The little procession strode out of the cave, the Maids falling swiftlyinto step as precisely as any soldiers, then turned right. Before them laythe path along the side of the valley, to the cave known as the Eye of theMist.

Arrows cracked on the rocks at the entrance to the cleft as Conanshifted his position. He sought a place where he could see and strikewithout being seen or attacked, and so far, none had come to hand.

Meanwhile, arrows continued to fly. Those he could reach withoutexposing himself, the Cimmerian gathered up. He and his Afghulis hadbegun this race for life with full quivers. They had reached the rocks with

half-empty ones.

The Afghulis were returning the Turanian complements in kind. Somemen and rather more horses fell on the slope. Riderless mounts careeredabout, tangling the ranks of those still mounted. The Afghulis might notbe archers equal to the horsemen of Turan, but they held high ground thathid them while they shot down on men in the open.

No command made the Turanians withdraw, only the common consentof those at the forefront that they had fought enough for one day. Thehorsemen backed down the slope, like the tide ebbing from the harbor ofArgos. They had the courage to keep their faces to the invisible enemy, forall that they left behind another half-score of comrades.

Some of the bolder spirits, who dismounted and took cover behind deadhorses, paid for their courage within moments. Three died in the space ofas many breaths, and Conan recognized the wild cry of triumph fromabove as issuing from Farad's throat.

The Turanian tide receded somewhat farther, not quite out of bowshotbut far enough so that the archers above ceased shooting. Conanconsidered using some of his captured arrows to urge the enemy backeven farther, then decided that wisdom lay elsewhere.

Sooner or later the Turanians would see the horses and nervethemselves to strike for them. Their hope would be to snatch the beastsand hold their enemies in place while reinforcements arrived.

Their fate would be to run the gauntlet of more arrows from on high,then to face a surprise encounter with the Cimmerian on ground of hisown choosing. There would be fewer and more cautious Turanians aftersuch an affray.

Conan set a dozen arrows within easy reach, then removed his boots formore silent movement. On the bare rock outside it was hot enough to bakebread or even burn his leather-tough feet, but here in the cleft, shadowsmade the rock bearable. He drew a whetstone and a wad of moss soakedin oil from a pouch on his belt and honed from the blade of hisbroadsword a few nicks that none but a seasoned warrior who was also theson of a blacksmith could have seen.

He was wary of turning his gaze from the Turanians, but thought therisk worth running. The Afghulis higher up the rocks would give sufficientwarning of any attack for the Cimmerian to make ready for it.

His weapons prepared, Conan crept to a spot between two boulders andcrouched there, as silent as a leopard watching a baboon's water hole and

as ready to strike. He saw the Turanians spreading out. He stood orsquatted within bowshot, but behind such rocks and stunted trees asoffered shelter.

The rest had drawn well back into the open. From the way they signaledby blasts of trumpets and wav-ings of banner, Conan judged that a goodpart of the band was out of sight, throwing a ring around the rocks—a ringtheir captain no doubt intended to hold the Afghulis as tightly as an ironcollar held a slave.

With the back of his hand, Conan wiped sweat and dust from a scarred,muscle-corded neck that had in its time known a slave's collar as well assilken robes and the golden chains of honor. If fresh horsemen came up toreplace the score or more dead or past fighting, the Turanians might do asthey intended.

How best to draw them into an attack that would reduce their numbersand courage further? Conan examined the rocks at the mouth of the cleftwith as much care as he would have considered the body of a womanwaiting in his bed. Perhaps more—the rocks would not grow impatient ifhe looked too long without acting.

He counted the rocks that were loose, counted others that were smallenough to lift or even throw, found some that were both. He turned hisgaze to the slope. Then he lay on his back behind a rock that a batteringram could not have moved, cupped his hands about his mouth, and calledto Farad.

"How fare you?" He spoke in a tongue of northern Vendhya notunknown to Farad or many other Afghulis, but rarely spoken in Turan.

"Well enough, Conan. We are only short of Turanian dogs we can killeasily."

There spoke the Afghuli warrior who would die rather than admit aweakness—one of many reasons why the Cimmerian found the Afghuliskindred spirits. The rocks aloft had to be hotter still than the slope, andthe Afghulis had only a single water bottle apiece. Conan vowed that oncethe Turanians had been further bloodied enough to learn caution, hewould search the cleft for some trace of a spring.

"I hope to do something about that before any of us are much older.How many do they have on the far side of the rocks?"

The sun was a trifle lower in the sky before Farad answered. It appearedthat no one had thought to count the enemy behind. Conan hoped that themen above had at least a sentry or two watching their rear. One fault the

Afghulis had, and one reason they did not rule in Vendhya and Iranistanat least, was despising anyone not a hillman. They would not readilybe-lieve a Turanian could climb rocks, until he did so and opened theirthroats with a keen blade.

From Farad's answer, it seemed likely that the Turanians had lost onein three of their number in the chase, to say nothing of foundered horsesand men bearing wounds that would drain strength if not life. If they lostas many again, their captain (if he lived) might not be able to hold themhere long enough for help to arrive.

Even if they held, they would be spread thin. Too thin, the Cimmeriansuspected, to resist a stealthy attack at night by men who were masters offighting in the dark more than almost any other form of war.

Conan waited, as motionless and patient as if he had been one of therocks himself. He wanted sun, thirst, wounds, and fear to play on theTuranians until their wits and limbs alike were less sound than before.

The sun had sunk beyond the crest of the rocks before Conan judgedthat the enemy was ready for his bait. Sheathing his sword and dagger butleaving bow and quiver, he crept farther into the cleft, close to the horses.

Even without water, the shade had done them some good. They stoodquietly, staring at the Cimmerian. His mare raised her head with an allbut human look of curiosity and boredom.

'Time to sing," Conan said. He raised his voice in a sharp, wordlesscommand that any horse bred in these lands could understand. The maretossed her head, dried foam flew, and she let out a sharp neigh.

By twos and threes, the other mounts joined in.

Conan bared his teeth, white in his dust-caked face, and scrambledback to his watching post.

The grin widened as he saw the Turanians coming to life, some of themleaping up as if they'd lain on ants' nests. The Afghulis above held theirfire.

The Turanians knew where the bait was. Now, to get them to take it.

Three

The four Maidens bearing the wine cup marched in step ahead of theLady of the Mists. This was not easy, as their feet were as bare as the restof them, but they neither stumbled nor missed a step.

The punishments for Maidens who transgressed were not as grave asthose for common folk. The Lady knew that she needed the Maidens' witsand steel alike on guard against her enemies. The Maidens knew that theLady valued them, and they in turn valued her rewards even more thanthey feared her punishments.

The peace between the Lady of the Mists and those who served her wasuneasy, as often as not. But its uneasiness had not ruined it in three years.No one expected a civil brawl in the valley now, when rumor had it thatthe Lady's dreams were close to fruition.

Dreams that would make all her friends powerful, even wealthy beyondmortal dreams, and her enemies tormented, shrieking souls beyond allmortal fears.

The Lady walked behind the Maidens, her hands clasped before her slimwaist. She was clad as she had been while she drew the life essence of thecaptives into the cup. She walked with a dignity that seemed to dare therocks to bruise her bare feet, or the breeze that crept into the valley withthe lengthening shadows to chill her bare skin.

She and the Maidens alike walked as if the presence or absence ofclothing was beneath their notice and should be likewise beneath thenotice of any who saw the women pass. Once only had some foolish soldierventured a bawdy remark at this procession of well-formed women. Histongue had quite literally cleaved to the roof of his mouth, and only whenit was black and stinking did the spell binding it break.

By then, of course, the festering in his mouth had reached his brain. Hedied raving, and those who heard him lived on with a new respect for thesorcerous power and woman's willfulness of the Lady of the Mists.

The path from the cave ran straight back along the north wall of thevalley for some seven furlongs. In places it ran along a ledge carved fromthe living rock of the Kezankian Mountains. In other places the ledge wasbuilt up upon the rock. Sometimes it was built of stones as large as ashepherd's hut, holding together without mortar. In other places curiouslythin bricks rose, layer upon layer.

One did not need to count the patches of lichen and hardy vine,silver-shot moss and ancient trees, dwarfed by wind and cold and gnarledby poor soil, to tell that the path was ancient work. An outsider whoentered the valley and lived to study it might have offered many differentnotions about the builders of the path. All would have been partly right, alllikewise partly wrong.

At the far end of the path, a flight of wooden steps led down a

near-vertical slope, some eighty paces high. Beside the steps a stoutwooden beam with a pulley and ropes dangling from it projected out overthe drop. The Maidens tied the wine cup, poles, netting, and all, to thepulley, then two of them descended the steps. Their mistress followed,then the cup, lowered on the pulley, and at last the two remainingMaidens, after they had wound in the rope.

All five women ignored the images carved on a smooth rock face justabove the wooden beam. All had seen them a score of times, and theMaidens were ignorant of their meaning.

The Lady of the Mists was not ignorant. She knew the marks of thelong-dead Empire of Acheron, whose magic yet lived in barbaric cornersof the world or in the hands and spells of the mad and the unlawful. Shedid not care to dwell too long on what these Acheronian carvings mightmean.

The Lady of the Mists had many vices, but she was not so foolish as tocast spells with a mind unsettled by shadows of ancient evil.

The women gathered at the bottom of the steps. From where they stood,a path of gravel bordered by more of the curiously thin bricks led off alongthe floor of the valley. The Maidens lifted the cup and fell into step, whilethe Lady cast a quick glance into a narrow cleft in the rock at the foot ofthe stairs.

In that cleft night held sway at all times, but enough light crept in toshow the whiteness of bleached bones within. Even without the bones, thedistant but unmistakable reek of rotting flesh made nostrils wrinkle andtold anyone passing by what lay within.

What came of the life essence of those whose remains lay within, theLady trusted that she knew. There could be none other within the valleysave the Mist itself, or there would be a battle from which the stars andthe gods might shrink in dismay.

As to the fate of a mortal, even a sorceress, caught in such a battle, itwas better not to think of such things if one needed sharp wits anduntroubled sleep.

For the first few hundred paces, the path ran through stony butwell-wooded land. Closely set young pines mingled their acrid scent withthe softer aroma wafting from a few colossal cedars, each of which mighthave yielded timber enough to build an entire temple. They reared abovethe pines like stags above a pack of wolves, and no one who saw themneeded to be told that they had stood far longer.

Beyond the trees the path wound back and forth along the floor of thevalley, between terraced fields mingled with huts and more stands oftimber. Twilight had already come to the valley; it was hard to make outclearly the forms of those who worked in the fields or chopped wood in theshadow of the trees.

Nor would anyone have been the worse for not seeing clearly those whoserved in the Valley of the

Mists. Their human semblance did not survive a close look.

At last the path began to rise, past a walled collection of thatched stonehuts that almost deserved the name of a village. Here the sentries on thewall had the shape of true men, and hailed the Lady of the Mists withgestures that had been old when the priests of Stygia first tamed theirsacred serpents.

Beyond the village the path became a flight of stone steps. As the crestsof the mountains to the north began to show the ruddy hues of lateafternoon, the five women reached a boulder, tall as two men. On theboulder was daubed, in rough vegetable colors, a crimson eye surroundedby blue swirls.

Beyond the boulder the mouth of yet another cave yawned. Within laythe Eye of the Mist.

Conan did not doubt that if waiting alone was needed, he and hisAfghulis had the advantage today. The Turanians lay or stood under thedesert sun, baking like flatbread on a griddle, unable to move a fingerwithout being observed. Conan and the Afghulis had concealment, andsome at least had shade.

The besiegers might have more water than the besieged; but in thisdesert, waterskins swiftly ran dry even among the finest regular soldiers.Irregulars would be dry-throated before dawn, with no recourse but tosend out a watering party and divide their strength, or else lift the siege.

But the outcome of this siege did not depend on who could squat thelongest on hot rock or yet hotter sand. It would depend on whetherConan's band could win free before the Turanians brought up newstrength. Then they could hold the Afghulis besieged for weeks oroverwhelm them in a single desperate assault, spending lives to save time.

Conan did not think much of the sort of captain who tossed away thelives of his men like a drunkard pissing in the streets. But he also knew fartoo well that the gods did not always reward virtue, whether in war, love,

or thievery.

The Turanians had to be drawn into an attack.

Conan uncoiled, as stealthily as any prowling serpent of the priests ofSet. He flattened himself against the side of the cleft and gripped awell-shaped stone the size of a swan's egg.

"Ho, Turanian dogs!" he shouted. "Have any of you the courage to facemen? Or did your weaning on vulture's spew take away your manhood?"

Conan went on in similar vein, until among the Turanians headsbobbed up from behind bushes or turned toward the rocks. A sergeantcursed those who had let themselves be baited, and advanced to pushthem down again.

From aloft, an arrow whistled down, taking the sergeant in the throat.He clawed at the jutting shaft, gobblings turning into chokings as theblood welled up in his throat, then fell backward to kick briefly before lifedeparted.

That was one less leader to force wisdom down the dry throats of foolishTuranians. Soon there might be none to hold back the besiegers from adesperate attack, or rally them when the Afghulis repelled that attack.

Curses and a few arrows replied to the sergeant's death. One Turanianshowed folly at once, leaping up to aim his shaft. Conan's heavy-thewedright arm flashed around like the lash of a drover's whip. The stone flew,not as straight as it might have from a sling, but straight enough to strikethe Turanian's chest.

Also hard enough to shatter his ribs and drive their jagged ends into hisheart. He took longer to die than the sergeant, but his life had just asthoroughly departed when a comrade rushed out to drag the body toshelter.

Loyalty bought only death. Three Afghulis shot together, two hit, andthe loyal comrade was dead before he had stretched his length on the sandbeside his friend.

From high above, Farad's voice chanted an old Afghuli verse, in honorto a worthy foe. Conan wished Mitra's favor for the dead Turanian—ifMitra or any other god cared much about how men died or had aught todo with their fate once dead.

He also wished the Turanians would either charge or flee. This endlesswaiting was no pleasure to him either. The sooner this came to strokes atclose quarters, the better.

Conan squinted and shaded his eyes with his hand against the glare ofthe sun. He was seeking the captain, to see how much command he hadover his men.

He found the captain swiftly, but for a long time after that, the captainshowed all the animation of a temple image. At least it seemed a longtime. Flies drawn by the sweat on the Cimmerian's scarred torso buzzedand stung, but he dared not slap at them, for fear the movement mightdraw a wild shot.

Then movement rippled along the Turanian lines, both the outer one inthe distance and the hidden men closer to hand. From the outer line adrum thudded. Another drum replied, not an echo. For a moment Conanfeared that the Turanian reinforcements had already arrived.

Then, from the same direction as the second drum, Turanian war criesrose into the sky. The drum redoubled its beat; a horn joined it. Fromabove, Farad's voice howled defiance, wordless but eloquent.

Conan cursed, dry-mouthed. That Turanian captain had more wits thanthe Cimmerian had thought. He was launching one attack to draw thearchers above. Next had to come an attack against Conan himself.

So be it. Even without the bows playing on them from above, theTuranians were about to learn more than was likely to please them aboutthe perils of fighting desperate men.

No steps or path led to the cave of the Eye. Only bare ground laybeneath the women's feet, but ground beaten almost as hard as rock bymany feet over the past three years (also, the Lady did not doubt, by feetpast counting over years equally beyond her power to number).

The wide mouth of the cave narrowed swiftly to a passage so low thattwo of the Maidens' hair brushed the ceiling. Rock dust powdered theirtresses, and small stones and the bones of bats and other dwellers indarkness crunched underfoot.

No light reached the tunnel once they were beyond the light from thecave mouth. Nor did they light torches. They had been this way manytimes, the Lady and her Maidens, and the path to the Eye held nosurprises. Nor could it grow any, with the Lady's magic searching ahead.

Only the eye of the Lady's memory saw the carvings on the walls. To anuninitiated eye and mind, they might have appeared natural formations,eroded into their bizarre and twisted shapes by water over the aeons. Tothe Lady's eye, which had looked upon them in full light only once, they

spoke of the work of hands so ancient that they might not have beenaltogether human.

Men—no, beings —with minds and skilled hands had dwelled in this andother caves in the Kezankian Mountains when other men were laying thefoundations of Atlantis. "Kull of Atlantis" was a name that conjured upvistas of unbelievable antiquity, but when these carvings took shape, Kull'smost remote ancestor had yet to see the light of day.

The chill breath of the cave wafting from the bowels of the mountainshad no power against the Lady, for all that she remained as bare as ever.The thought of the weight of years pressing down upon her did give her achill, the kind of chill to the heart and soul that neither hearth-fire norposset cup can ease.

None of this showed in her steady pace or her straight back. She mighthave been a figure of ivory or alabaster in some buried temple.

Then the five women came out of the darkness into the light—the lightof the Eye. It was a crimson light, subtly different from the light within thecup, as two rubies may differ one from the other. It flowed upward as if ithad been a liquid from a hole in the floor of a rock chamber some thirtypaces wide.

The hole was half a man's height in width, and the rock around its rimwas worn away to glassy smoothness that made for treacherous footing.This did not halt or even slow the steady pace of the five women. Theymarched straight up to the rim. The Lady raised a hand, and the Maidenshalted, then turned to stand two on each side of the hole.

Now the cup hung suspended over the hole—and was the lid rattlingfaintly, like distant bones tossed by the wind? Did what lay within the Eyecall to what lay within the cup? The Lady knew that in this place it wasboth easy and perilous to imagine sounds beyond the ear and sightsbeyond the eye.

Another gesture seemed to turn the Maidens to statues. Only theslightest rise and fall of their breasts said that they yet lived. A thirdgesture, and the cup lifted from the leather net and rose into the air.

It had barely risen above the Maidens' heads when they came to life,drawing aside and back with more haste than dignity. No commandreached them; none was needed. They had not been among those who sawthe fate of a Maiden who was a laggard in drawing away from the Eye, butall of the Maidens had heard the tale.

They had heard how the Mist rose from the Eye before the Maiden was

beyond its reach. They had heard of how obscenely it dealt with her, asthough it had the mind of a mad executioner. They had, above all, heardhow she screamed as she died.

The Maidens withdrew all the way to the mouth of the tunnel, leavingthe Lady alone with the cup and the crimson incandescence from the Eye.She sat down, cross-legged, as ever insensible of cold stone against herflesh, and raised both hands. She also closed her eyes. Even guarded bysorcery, mortal eyes were not meant to see what came next.

The crimson light grew stronger. Now it gave a demonic hue to the fleshof the Lady and her Maidens. There were no words in lawful tongues todescribe what it did to the cup and above all to the sigil-bearing lid.

The light also drove every vestige of darkness from the chamber. In thathellish illumination, one might have seen that the walls of the chamberwere as bare as the Lady, but too smooth to be the work of nature. Hereagain was the work of races long dead, and perhaps leaving the world thebetter for their passing.

The light began to dance, and at the same time turn color. The crimsonfaded, and an unwholesome shade of purple took its place. Then thepurple faded to a livid blue that might have seemed natural had it notswirled and danced like a mist being blown away by a strong wind. TheMist rose the height of two men from the Eye, but did not reach a finger'sbreadth over the edge of the hole.

The Mist might have been held within a bottle of marvelously clearglass, except that nothing confined it save the Lady's magic—and perhapsthe will of the Mist of Doom.

The Lady was now as devoid of the power to move or speak as theMaidens were. In this moment her magic passed directly from her mind tothe Mist, or not at all. With arts learned long ago and in great suffering,she drove down to the lowest levels of her mind any fear of what mighthappen if the Mist did not respond as it had in the past.

In the next moment, the Lady's fear and the cup alike were gone. TheMist whirled until it seemed only a column of blue light rising from theEye. Then it shot up until it reached the ceiling and sprayed across it,more like a jet of water than something as intangible as mist.

The cup burst aloft with the rising Mist. It was still beyond the Lady tomove, but she turned the focus of her mind from the Mist to the cup. Sheshaped her will into invisible fingers, slid them under the cup, and held itas the Mist drew back into the Eye.

Only then was the bond broken, and the Lady able to use her body,limbs and mouth alike, to conjure the cup to a gentle landing. It was somewhile before the Maidens came out to pick it up, because they had to waituntil the Lady herself ceased trembling.

When they had the cup safely within the net again, they gatheredaround their mistress. They did not need to speak, only lift her gently andguide her back to the tunnel. Perhaps one of them might have looked atthe rock pressing down overhead and uttered a short prayer to her patrongods that they all live to stand under the open sky again.

If they did, it did not concern the Mist of Doom.

Enough time for a hasty meal had already crawled by, the slower for thesun. Soon it would be long enough for a banquet since the Turanians atConan's rear had attacked, and still those before him remained low or outof bowshot.

Conan wondered if some cunning climber among the Turanians hadfound a way up the far side of the rocks and led his comrades into a battleat close quarters. Or at least high enough to lie in wait, ready to swarmforward when their comrades attacked from the south.

They would learn a harsh lesson about attacking hillmen among rocks ifthey had been so bold. But teaching that lesson might well keep theAfghulis too busy to help Conan.

He was about to call up to Farad, to bid him scout the north face of therocks, when a trumpet sounded far to the Turanian right, out of Conan'ssight. A brazen reply floated on the breeze from the left, the trumpeter asinvisible as his comrade.

Plain to anyone but a blind man was a score or more of Turaniansgathering themselves to plunge forward in a desperate attack. Conan hadbarely finished counting them when he saw a half-score of horsemencaracoling just outside bowshot. At first he thought the reinforcementshad arrived. Then he recognized some of the Turanians' headdresses.

The mounted men, it seemed, were a second wave, to follow on the heelsof the first one. Conan's respect for the enemy captain rose higher. A goodplan—if the first wave could ever be persuaded to move forward.

Then in the next moment that work of persuasion was done, and theTuranians leaped from cover and ran toward the rocks. Conan nocked anarrow, shot, nocked another, shot it, and was nocking a third when arrowsfrom above tumbled two more Turanians in the sand.

That made one in five down before they even reached close quarters,but no more arrows came from above and the Turanians came on as if apurse of gold lay ahead or demons snapped at their heels. Conancontinued shooting. The Turanians were coming as straight toward himas if the rocks were glass or a tavern dancer's veils, covering all, concealingnothing.

One more Turanian fell, but to no mortal hurt; he unslung his bow andbegan scattering arrows about the rocks above Conan's head. Hiscomrades ran on—and now from above, Conan heard familiar Turanianwar cries, Afghuli curses, and oaths in the tongues of more than a fewother folk.

The Turanian host was like the gallows—it refused no man who came toit. Conan owed his own career in Turan to that habit.

Only moments after battle was joined above, it was joined below. Theremaining Turanians crossed to the foot of the rocks unmolested fromabove. Now even an Afghuli with no foes closer to hand could hardly strikeat them, or they at him.

The bow had not, however, made other and more ancient weaponsharmless. How many rocks the Afghulis had piled ready, Conan did notknow, but they seemed to rain from the sky. Three Turanians went down,two rose again, and one of these died as Conan flung a smaller stone tocrack his skull.

Now the Cimmerian's long legs drove his feet against one of theboulders placed ready. It squealed like a slaughtered pig as it rubbed pastanother rock, then reached the open slope and began to roll.

Before it was well launched, Conan threw his feet against a secondboulder. Then a third, and on to a fourth that needed one foot and botharms. Even the Cimmerian's thews strained at the last rock, fresh sweatmade slime of the dust on his forehead, and for a dreadful moment itseemed that the boulder would be his match.

Then it followed the others. Conan leaped back as arrows whistledthrough the space he had occupied. He had just time to see half theTuranians scattering before the onslaught of the boulders, before thevanguard of the other half reached him.

Now it was the deadliest kind of close-quarters fighting, with all the artof a tavern brawl but much more steel and therefore far more bloodshed.Conan had two aims: to kill as many Turanians as he could, and to keepthe fight so tangled that no Turanian with a bow could end the fight witha single arrow.

Conan had not despised bowmen as cowards even before he learned theart of the bow, for the art of the sling was well-known in his native land.But no one could doubt that a well-aimed shaft had brought many a fineswordsman to an untimely end.

Conan would accept his end when the gods called him to it. But theircall would reach him among the ranks of his enemies, sword in hand.

The Cimmerian had a head's advantage in height and two spans inreach over the stoutest of his opponents. Add that his broadsword wasbetter fitted for this battle than the tulwars of Turan, and ten-to-one oddswere not so long as they might have seemed.

Conan hewed the sword arm from his first opponent and sundered theskull of the second. Both fell so as to block the narrow passage to theCimmerian for those behind. The first one to hesitate did so within reachof the Cimmerian's sword, and died of that mistake. Two others leapedfree with only minor wounds, but barred a clear shot to archers behind.

Conan feared that this good fortune would not last; now more than everhe would not assume his foes were witlings. So he took the fight to theenemy, closing the distance to the two nearest in a single leap.

He struck them with as much force as a boulder. One man toppledagainst the rock wall, hard enough to knock himself senseless. Conankicked the other, hard enough to double him over. A tulwar fell from onehand, a dagger from the other, and the man himself fell on top of themwhen the Cimmerian split his skull with a down-cut.

Another Turanian leaped up to contest the rock with Conan. Now bloodfrom the already fallen flowed over it, making it slick. The Cimmerian wasa hillman of the breed of whom it is said they have eyes in their feet. Heknew how to keep his footing on slippery rock, and make an opponent losehis.

The Turanian tried to grapple, praying aloud, clearly hoping to takeConan down with him. Conan slapped the man across the temple with theflat of his sword, weakening his grip. That weakened grip let theCimmerian draw his dagger and thrust fiercely upward. The Turanianhowled and flew backward from the rock, propelled by a kick that addedfurther ruin to his belly and groin.

He struck a comrade, again with the force of a boulder, and both menwent down. Conan reached them before the unwounded Turanian couldrise, stamped on his chest hard enough to shatter ribs, then fended off twoand killed one enemy seeking to drag the fallen clear.

Arrows again whistled and clattered. One ripped the skin over his ribs,deep enough that blood flowed freely over the dust and the scars. Thewound would hardly slow him and might not even add a fresh scar, but hewas reminded that he now stood in the open. He had routed or slain allthe Turanians who shielded him from their comrades' arrows. Now he hadto either push forward to bring the fight back to close quarters, orwithdraw.

A look down the slope told him the wisdom of withdrawing. The firstwave of Turanians was out of the fight, and the survivors of the secondshowed no disposition to close. Three of them had fallen to the boulders,which had also crushed the life out of the archer the Afghulis hadwounded. The others retained some cunning with the bow but no heart forpushing the fight to swords' reach of the Cimmerian.

Another arrow nicked Conan's left calf as he returned to his refuge. Hehad taken worse hurts in a friendly wrestling bout, but they reminded himthat the Afghulis above might not have fared as well. That no arrows hadcome down from above during his own grapple with the Turanians mightmean sundry things, but none of them good.

"Ho!" he called, in the same dialect he had used before. "How arematters with you?"

"Assad is dead and Kurim is hurt past fighting. None of us are whole.Those Turanian dogs climbed the rocks as if they were men, but we taughtthem otherwise."

"How many learned the lesson?"

"A few short of fifty."

"I didn't know you could count that high, O brother of a camel!"

Silence, then Farad said, "More than ten, for we have counted thatmany bodies and some rolled back down."

On the Cimmerian's reckoning, the Turanians had lost another third oftheir strength. Ride out now, while the Turanians were shaken and weak,or wait until night, when darkness would hide tracks and coolness ease thehorses?

"Can the hurt ride now?"

"Best wait for dark. I will leave none save Assad, and not even he if wecan. Rastam and Jobir are already down among those dogs, prey to theirgodless rites."

Conan knew the sound of an Afghuli who would not be moved from his

decision. To his mind, riding out now made better sense, giving theTuranians no chance to bring up reinforcements.

Out of care for his men, Farad clearly thought otherwise. Question theAfghuli further, and the Cimmerian might have to leave this loyal band tokeep Farad's knife out of his back some night farther on the road to Koth.One could ask only so much of any Afghuli if one was not of his tribe.

So be it. They would all ride that road together, or remain here on therocks with a good guard of Turanians to help them greet the vultures.

Four

The western horizon swallowed the sun. Swiftly the last light of daydrained from the sky. The peaks of the Kezankian Mountains turnedpurple, then gray under the starlight.

A natural mist veiled the entrance to the Lady's valley as Muhbaraswalked down to his tent. Or at least it was a mist that he could persuadehimself was work of the mountain night and not of the Lady's magic.

Reason warred and would continue to war against ancient tales of themighty magic lurking in these mountains—magic of which the Lady mighthave a sadly imperfect command. The captain had first heard those talesfrom his nursemaid, but later years had brought to his ears other versionsof them, so that he doubted they were altogether an old woman's fancies.

Meanwhile, he had been given orders and men with which to carrythem out, as an alternative to a more permanent exile or some harsherfate. He doubted that he himself would ever see Khoraja again, but hecould not throw away his men out of his own despair.

So he would do his duty of the night, and sleep, to make ready forwhatever might be the duties of the day.

The rocks returned the heat of day to the night sky arching above them.Within the ravine the horses stirred uneasily. A pebble fell from highabove, followed by two more. Then one by one, the last four Afghulisscrambled down the rocks.

One of them had a dead comrade's headdress wrapped around his armas a bandage. He also showed dark beads of blood on his lower lip, wherehe had bitten it to stifle a cry of pain.

The Afghulis gathered around Conan, eyes gleaming in their dark faces.

They had braided their beards and tied them roughly with scraps of cloth,then drawn scarves over their necks and chins. That was the Afghuli markof having sworn to conquer or to die.

Conan had sworn no such oath. Indeed, he had seldom fought any otherway, and it was not in him to do so tonight. The greatest kindness theTuranians might show him was a quick death, and that, he could alwaysprocure for himself.

"Anyone who has water, give it to your horse."

Conan said. "Archers, don't shoot unless you have a good mark, andtake a horse before you take a rider."

The Afghulis nodded.what they already knew,well. But a chief amongbefore the battle, if onlyspeaking.

Conan hardly doubted that he was telling themand that they needed no reassurance, he knew asthe Afghulis always spoke to his assembled mento prove that fear had not dried his tongue past

"If we are divided, the meeting place is at the Virgin's Oasis." He gavedistances and landmarks, then asked, "Questions?"

Farad spoke up. "Yes. Whenever did the gods allow a woman to comeinto this desert and remain a virgin?"

"A long time ago, or so I've heard," the Cimmerian replied. "Men wereless than they are today, in that time, and of course, none of them wereAfghulis."

Bawdy laughter all but raised echoes, so that Conan held a finger to hislips. "The Turanians are not all asleep, and not all who wake are fools.Speed and silence now, or we'll keep our lost comrades company."

In silence the Afghulis bowed, then turned to tend their horses.

Only the dead remained high on the ridge, hands stiffening over thehilts of daggers thrust between their ribs according to the Afghuli custom.Thus the harsh gods of that still harsher land would know that a friend'ssteel had pierced their hearts, and that their ghosts would be friends tothe living, even watchful on their behalf.

If the ghosts of the Afghulis' dead watched this night, they saw nothing,or at least sent no word to their living friends. Below on the desert, neitherAfghuli nor Cimmerian saw shadows creep across a distant sand dune,then sink silently to rest. They did not see a messenger slipping away fromthe outer line of the watching Turanians, also creeping shadowlike until he

was beyond seeing from the rocks.

Far out beyond the crests, only ghosts might have seen him mount ahorse held ready by four riders who bore the lances and shields ofTuranian regular cavalry and the colors of the crack Greencloaks. Onlyghosts might have seen him ride off into the night, until he met a slim,youthful-looking Turanian captain not far from where the shadows hadcome to rest.

And only ghosts might have heard his message to the captain, or notedthe captain's thin face split briefly in a wry grin.

Three Afghuli archers climbed on the highest boulders remaining afterthe battle. They were fewer in number and with less command of the slopebelow than Conan could have wished. But he now led fewer than he had atdawn, and of those, not all were fighting-fit. Warriors did the best theycould with what they had, and if the end came sooner because what theyhad was not enough—

Conan asked two Afghulis to repeat the directions to the Virgin's Oasis.They both knew the way. Then he scrambled onto the boulders with thearchers, as Farad led the others out into the open.

Neither drums, trumpets, showers, nor even the mating-cat squall of afrightened sentry greeted the Afghulis' appearance. It began to seem thatthey would either enjoy good luck or face a trap.

Conan swallowed a Cimmerian war cry. Glad to defy alert opponents, herefused to alert sleeping ones. Instead he slapped Farad's mount on therump and swung into his own saddle. He raised one hand in a cheerfullyobscene Afghuli gesture, waited until the three archers scrambled downand mounted, then spurred his horse forward.

The riders streamed down the slope at a brisk trot, raising a ghostlycloud of dust. In the chill of the desert night, the breath of men and horsesadded will-o'-the-wisps of vapor to the dust.

They passed dead men lying stiff and silent, doomed men still moaningagainst their coming death, and a few who Conan thought might havebeen shamming. There was no time to send those last to join theircomrades, for all that this would leave them alive in the riders' rear. Thiswas a ride for life. If it became a battle, it would most likely be one lostbecause it took place at all!

Once they were clear of the shadow of the rocks, the moon gave enoughlight to permit avoiding holes and cracks in the ground. They held their

speed down to a trot. The horses might not be able to keep up a canter. Ifthey could, best to save it for when the Turanians sighted them. TheTuranians could not have drawn back so far that even by night the escapewould remain forever invisible.

Or could they? As one rise gave way to another without an attack oreven a warning cry, Conan began to wonder. His band had punished theTuranians soundly in today's fighting. Had they drawn off to lick theirwounds while they waited for reinforcements?

A trap still seemed more likely, but there seemed no need to warn hismen. The Afghulis appeared more alert than ever, riding with bows strungor tulwars drawn, eyes ceaselessly roaming the night, heads turning at anyslight sound heard above the thud of the horses' hooves.

They had been moving now for long enough to empty a jug of wineworth savoring. Conan felt a familiar itch between his shoulder blades thathinted of danger close in time and space. He raised a hand, and theAfghulis reined in and gathered around him.

Night-keen eyes roamed again, studying every hillock and the mouth ofevery ravine for signs of lurking danger. Only a dry wash was too deep inshadow to spy out. Conan studied it until he was sure that he sawsomething move within the shadows, and was equally sure that it was onlyhis imagination. He had stood sentry too often not to know that the nightwill listen to a man's fears and, if he stares into it long enough, show hiswhat is not there.

Conan pointed toward the north, away from the wash. "I want to ridewell clear of that. Men on that flank, grow some more eyes if you can.Otherwise you may never see the Virgin's Oasis, let alone a living virgin!"

Low chuckles rose into the night along with the steam from the horses,and the band moved off again.

The young captain cursed softly at the noise the sentries made sendingthe message. Their quarry might not be as desert-wise as Turanianveterans, but they were seasoned warriors and no fools in any kind of land.

Then he cursed again at the message. The Afghulis were indeed no fools,and they had a very watchful and longheaded warrior leading them, evenif he were not the man the captain thought he was. Two of the three bandsthe captain had placed ready would now find it hard to come up with theAfghulis.

The captain was not much of a one for prayer, as few gods promised

much (their priests promised more, but who could trust a priest?), andfewer still kept their promises. However, he did briefly ask Mitra toconsider his probable fate if tonight more of his men died trying to takealive the wrong man.

The Afghulis' leader certainly seemed to be the one the captain sought.But the captain had not been able to get a true and complete descriptionof the leader. Part was because few of the men who had a close look at himyet lived. Part was not wishing to raise suspicions of the leader's identityin the minds of the captain's own men.

It would not matter that the reason for which the captain wished theman taken alive served Turan. Accusations of treason floated about freelynow in the kingdom, like rotten lilies in the scum atop a stagnant pond.Even if the charge stopped short of treason— popular, because it carriedthe death penalty, and the captain had enemies who would not sleep easyas long as he lived—it could mean demotion.

That in turn could mean a choice between returning to his family'sestates, and living there until some further intrigue snatched him away, ora post counting horseshoes and saddle blankets so far to the south that thenomads spoke Iranistani. Here was a post of honor, more honorable still inthat he commanded Greencloaks and had won their respect. He would notpart with it alive.

The desert breeze did blow through the captain's mind one finalthought. If the man leading the Afghulis was the one the captain sought,the matter of life or death might not be altogether the captain's choice. Hehad seen the man fight years ago, and by all reports, he was as hardy asever and seasoned by many more battles and journeys during those years.

The captain put an end to his fretting and raised his lance. Beside him asergeant raised his lance, with a small one-eye lantern dangling from thetip like a pennon.

Three hills away, a similar lantern glimmered against the stars, thenfaded as its bearer turned away, to pass the signal on. The captain waiteduntil the soft jingle of harness and taut, shallow breaths around him toldof veterans ready to ride out.

Then the captain drove in his spurs, and his horse surged down thewash as clouds drifted toward the moon.

Conan cursed briefly, but this time not softly, as the riders swarmed outof the wash. It was no comfort to have been right when it was too late for

being right to matter.

He would have cursed again, but he had better uses for his breath atthis moment, and besides, he feared to dishearten the Afghulis. Stoutwarriors as they were, they were also at the end of their endurance. Whatsmall hope they had of winning free now depended on every man fightingso that the first few enemies to come within his reach died swiftly andbloodily.

After that, the new Turanians might be as disheartened as the old ones.

And elephants might turn purple—in the daylight, in the sight of sobermen.

Conan pulled the mare's head toward the left. The right of a line mightbe the post of honor in civilized hosts, but here was neither civilization norhost. The post of honor was that closest to danger, and to enemies whowould feel the Cimmerian's steel before either he or they died.

"Spurs in, swords out, and heads down!" he called, as he drew up in theleftmost place.

"What—?" someone began. Someone else snarled in wordless fury, atthe folly of not seeing that the time for arguing was past.

The first speaker fell silent. Then there was no human sound fromConan's band, or at least none heard over the thud of the hooves, thepanting of the horses through flared nostrils, and the rising thunder of thepursuing Turanians.

It was a long bowshot even for the best archer, and night shooting was achancy business when arrows were scant. Before long the clouds reachingout for the moon blotted out the silver-sheened disk and a deeper darknessfell over the desert. Now the race for life was up to the horses.

No Afghuli horses had fallen, but half were staggering and foam-flecked,when Conan heard a war trumpet cry out to the stars from behind hisband. Then the desert night grew colder, a coldness that thrust into hisbowels like an enemy's spear, when he heard the trumpet answered ahead.

It was some distance off, as far as the Cimmerian's keen and seasonedears could judge, but it surely lay across the Afghulis' path to whateversafety the open desert might offer tonight. Now the Turanians would noteven have to wolf-pack their prey. They could close and crush by sheerweight of numbers, once they had blocked the path.

Conan's eyes searched the shadows, looking for even a few scatteredrocks that might help in a last stand. They faced nothing better, but itmattered to him how many foes he took with him, and the Afghulis were

warriors of the same stamp.

Nothing but sand and gravel revealed itself, dunes swelling and sinkingdown to washes and ravines too shallow to hide a mounted man. Theclouds held their veil over the moon; everything beyond half-bowshotvanished in the shadows even to Conan's keen night-sight.

Both horns sounded again, and both now closer. Conan listened, tryingto judge if the Turanians ahead were drawing across his path, or were stilloff to one flank. If they were on one flank, and either good going for thehorses or cover for the men lay on the other—

Conan's ears searched the night, and he realized that he had clutchedhis sword hilt so tightly that his nails dinted the shagreen grip. Then helaughed, and no sane man would have heard that laugh without fearcolder than the night, for it held a Cimmerian's battle rage.

The Turanians ahead were still some ways to the left of the path ofConan's band. In the darkness, they might not realize this until it was toolate. The trap had been well set and now was truly sprung, but might itnot be too weak to hold such formidable prey?

This might be whistling into the desert wind, but Conan held thatthought in his mind as a starving wildcat grips a squirrel. He had led toooften to doubt that in such moments the men of a war band could all butread their leader's thoughts. They had best read hope and courage there,or the battle was lost before it was fairly joined.

The ground to the right did lie open, but it also rose steeply betweentwo shallow ridges. Conan's eyes raked the ridge crests, found nothing upthere, but then saw an Afghuli's mount stumble. The rider bent over towhisper encouragement and at the same time apply the spur, but thehorse was spent. It went down, flinging its rider clear. The horseman leaptto his feet, darted for one of the spare mounts, gripped the saddle, andswung himself into it without the fresh horse missing a step.

"Ya-haaaaa!" Conan shouted. With such men under him, the Turanianswould have another battle to remember before they shoveled him underthe sand or left him for the vultures. They might even win free, if theyreached the top of the slope and found no enemies there.

The Afghulis reached the top of the slope, but in no way fit to fleebeyond it. The climb had been too much for their horses, one of whomflung its rider off at once. Conan heard the deadly thud of a skull strikingrock, and saw that the man did not move after he fell.

"Ya-haaaa!" Conan shouted again, and wheeled his mount. Beyond the

ridges to either side lay darkness and perhaps ground fit to conceal a manon foot. This was no desert for a man on foot, unless he was as hardy as anAfghuli and as ready to make those pursuing him wary of closing.

But there was only one way to buy time for the Afghulis, and only oneman fit to pay the price. Conan's horse staggered as he brutally jerked herhead around, until she was facing down the slope. Then he drove in hisspurs.

As his charge gathered way, he heard a voice rise above the hoofthunder of the onrushing Turanians. Half-lost in the blare of trumpets, itseemed from all sides, it yet sounded curiously familiar. But the manwhose name the voice conjured up would never have given such a madorder as the one Conan heard now.

"Take the big one alive, at all costs!"

Someone cared little for the lives of his men tonight or their obediencetomorrow, if he thought that would be an easy task against theCimmerian.

In the next moment the night seemed to turn solid with the onrushingshapes of mounted men. They bore lances, and crouched in the saddleboth to pro-tect themselves and to thrust low. They did not succeed indoing the first. Conan cut five men out of the saddle as his mount crashedthrough their line.

But three lances and a sword left a cruel mark on Conan's mare. Shescreamed like a damned soul and had the strength to rear so violently thatthe Cimmerian lost his seat. He slid backward, landing spring-legged ashis horse fell, blood flowing from her mouth as well as her wounds. Hisdrawn sword hissed in a deadly arc before him and to either side, and thescreams of Turanian horses drowned out the mare's death rattle.

Then the butt of a lance came down on his shoulder. It jarred evenConan's muscle-armored limb to the bone, and his sword turned in hishand as he slashed at the lance-bearer. The barbarian opened the man'schest, even through a coat of good Turanian mail, but Conan's sword stuckfor a moment.

Another lance thrust forward, ripping across Conan's forearm. Theshock, more than the pain or the damage, forced open his hand. His swordfell. Conan drew his dagger and leapt for the first horseman he couldsee—which left him open to three on his left and rear whom he could not.

All struck with lance-butts, and the darkness of the desert night pouredinto Conan's brain and swallowed up his being.

The young captain reined in just outside sword's reach from the circleof men around the fallen Afghuli leader. He did not doubt the obedience ofhis men, even though his orders had doubtless cost some their lives andmore blood and pain. He did doubt that after such a fight in suchdarkness, all saw clearly.

"Who passes there?"

Good, it was Sergeant Barak. He was as hard to excite as a sand dune,and nearly as hard to move.

"The scarred captain." Why did he name himself so? The man on theground might be the wrong one, and if he was the right one, he was stillmost likely as senseless as a prayer carpet.

No matter. It had been an impulse, of the sort the captain had learnedto trust over many years. Trusting them was one of the things that hadguarded his back from his enemies and his king alike—if in fact these weredifferent.

"Make way for the captain," Barak called, pitching his voice to carrywithout raising it to his normal bull's roar. The captain dismounted as thecircle of men opened, and stepped forward to see what lay on the groundwithin it.

It was the man the captain had been seeking. He was breathing andlooked to be intact as to limb and vital organs. If this was so, even if theblood that covered him was partly his, he would heal swiftly and be fit tofight soon enough for the captain's plans. The best part of ten years hadnot taken much from the man's colossal vitality, unless all the tales of himthat had reached the captain's ears were lies.

"How many of our comrades are dead?"

Muttered answers said little, until the sergeant called for silence andasked a few sharp questions.

"Nine, lord, and five more gravely hurt."

"I will reward the kin of all who died here tonight, and the living whoare past service will likewise be free of want."

Whether shaken, respectful, or merely prudent when no one knew whospied where, the men were silent. None asked, "With what?" which wouldhave been a more than reasonable question to anyone who did not knowthe captain's hidden resources.

Not even their being hidden could save a single brass piece, however, if

this plan miscarried. The captain misliked hiding even part of the truth,but he had to admit that this was no time to pour out all of it, like flingingthe contents of a chamber pot from an attic window.

"How many men had he with him?" was the captain's next question.

"We slew or took seven," the sergeant said. "Most likely there was ahandful more, from the horses. But they've run off the gods alone knowwhere."

The sergeant, like the wise of his kind, knew how to tell an officerdistasteful truths without putting them into words. The man's tone and,even in the darkness, his stance told him that the men would not readilycharge off into the desert night, seeking the last Afghulis.

Nor was there any need for them to do so. Those who fled were of smallconcern. The captives, on the other hand—

"How many taken?"

"Two who will live, and one who will not see dawn."

"Cut his throat and say proper rites over him. Bind the others' wounds,likewise this one's, and prepare horse litters for them. We ride for theVirgin's Oasis when this is done."

Barak was not the only one to bow his head and say, "As you command,my lord." He also was not the only one whose face showed doubt as to thecause of this—if it had any cause but their captain's sudden madness!

Five

Conan awoke in a tent. This was no surprise. Nor was it any surprisethat his feet were chained to a stout stake driven into the ground in themiddle of the tent. Wrist irons connected by another length of chainrestrained his hands, but left him free to reach a jug of water and a plateof flat Turanian bread on the ground beside him.

The real surprise was his being awake and alive at all. The captainclearly had more than common control over his men, that they obeyed hisorders to capture the Cimmerian alive after such a bloodbath as the finalfight. Conan felt bruises, grazes, and one or two gashes, but none weremore than he had expected, and all seemed to have been cleaned,poulticed, and even dressed.

Somebody—call him the captain—wanted Conan alive. For whatpurpose, the Cimmerian could only guess. He vowed to ask the first man

who came in, and if the answer was not to his liking—well, there wasenough scope in the chains that he could strangle at least one man. And ifhe could break the chains, as he had broken chains at least as stout whenhe was younger and had nothing but bull-strength—a broken chain madea weapon wise men feared.

Conan sat up, thirst crackling in his mouth and throat and thunderrumbling in his head. Awkwardly, he lifted the jug and emptied it in a fewswallows. He was reaching for the bread when he saw movement behindone flap of the tent door.

"Call this food!" he shouted. "Bring me some meat fit for a man, or sendyour captain and I'll devour him!"

The tent flap shook violently as the Cimmerian's wrath propelled theunseen listener out into the open, then fell still. Conan's laughter sentbread sliding off the plate. Then he was too busy making the breaddisappear to care further about the fugitive.

The bread had been coarse when fresh and was now stale as well, butfood meant strength for the next fight. There would be such a fight, too.Even had Conan been disposed to submit meekly to whatever death theTuranians intended for him, there were a dozen sworn comrades toproperly avenge.

There were two death sentences in force in this Turanian camp this day.The first was that which the Turanians had passed on Conan. The secondwas the one that Conan had passed on the men who tried to carry out thefirst.

By the time he had taken that resolve, Conan had emptied the plate aswell as the jug. He belched in satisfaction, then cautiously tested thestrength of his chains.

The test pleased him. The chains were heavy enough, but the rivetsholding them to the rings were another matter. Even on that first cautioustest, Conan had sensed weakness there that pleased him—and alsooffended him.

His father would never have taken a king's silver for such shoddy work!

The captain had awakened from a dream of breaking his fast onperfumed wine, honey cakes, and fresh fruit, in a bed furnished with silksheets and shared with a comely lady now some years dead.

His actual fast-breaker was water, bread, and a slab of sausage. Hecould not recognize what meat had gone into the sausage; after three bites

he decided he did not wish to know. Appetite, however, kept him eatinguntil the sausage was down and settling, however uneasily, in his stomach.

He was trimming his mustache with his dagger when Sergeant Barakentered.

"The big prisoner is awake."

"How does he fare?"

"Healthy enough to curse the guards into fits, or so I've heard."

"A good sign. What of the others?"

"The Afghulis?"

"Is that what they are? A long way from home, I should say."

That bordered on lying. It was hardly a surprise that the man wouldhave sworn Aghuli guards, if the tales from Afghulistan these two yearspast held even a kernel of truth.

It was also a near-lie in a good cause. The captain wished to know howmany of his men might have some chance of recognizing the captive. Thefewer, the better, at least until he and the man had sat down together andfelt each other out.

"I am going to visit the captive. Have wine and sausage brought to thetent when I am there. Treat the Afghulis as common prisoners, but do notallow anyone to harm them or them to harm themselves."

"As the captain wills," Barak said. Again the captain knew he was beingpolitely reproached.

"Are the men unhappy?"

"Not so's you'd notice, even the ones who lost friends. But they're allcurious."

And unsatisfied curiosity could turn into discontent and mutiny fasterthan the desert wind could blow down an ill-secured tent. The captain hadsurvived one such affray when he was barely fledged, and had no wish toface a second.

"I must speak with our captive to satisfy my own curiosity," the captainsaid. "But when I have satisfied mine, I will do the same for all the men."

The sergeant bowed. He seemed more resigned than happy, but thatwas the common view of sergeants toward superiors and superiors' plansthey could not understand.

The captain finished trimming his mustache, cleaned his teeth, then

garbed himself properly, including mail under his tunic, both shirt andloin-guard, and a steel cap under his headdress. Of weapons openlydisplayed, he bore only a dagger.

If he could make his peace with the captive, he would need no weaponat all. If not, neither sword, axe, nor bow would be sufficient.

Conan had just decided that he was unobserved and that it was time tobegin loosening rivets when the tent flap shivered. Then a Turaniancaptain walked in, wearing silk from headdress to boot-top and a jeweleddagger in his sash.

Another of Yezdigerd's well-born lapdogs , was the Cimmerian's firstthought.

Then he noticed that the silk was heavy enough to wear well, andstained and patched from much hard service. The sash had the subtlebulges of one weighted to serve as a weapon, and the steel of the daggerprobably cost as much as the jewels. Nor did the man move like a courtier,more like a young wolf for all that he was at least a head shorter than theCimmerian.

"Well, Captain Conan. I will not now say well met, but I will ask if youremember me."

Conan knew the Turanian tongue well enough that he could havecomposed verse in it had he ever felt the desire to compose verse at all.The captain's accent was that of the very highest nobility—so wellborn, hewas, if no lapdog.

The Cimmerian studied his visitor, whom he began to think he hadindeed seen before. He thought the man had been thinner and the beardnot so faded by years of desert sun, but above the beard—

"Crom!"

"Not I, Conan. I would not sit on a throne of ice in a cold wasteland,glowering at all men who dare ask me for the smallest favor. Or is thatsome other Cimmerian god?"

"That is close enough, Khezal son of Ahlbros. Or Khezal's twin brother,if ever he had such."

"There is only one and he stands before you."

"Well, sit, then. It will never be said that I made an old comrade standin my presence, even when I'm not at my best for giving hospitality."

Something Conan could not readily name passed over Khezal's face at

the words "old comrade." So the man put some value on that, did he?Enough, maybe, to explain what he planned and what part the Cimmerianhad in those plans?

Khezal sat down. He seemed to move a trifle more stiffly now.

"New wounds, Khezal? Or the old ones bothering you more with thepassing years?"

"Conan, I'm three years younger than you, which hardly makes me astiffening dotard drowsing by the fireside. Can you shape your tongue toquestions that are neither impertinent nor insulting?"

If Conan had held any doubt of Khezal's identity, it was fast fading. Thewry speech was that of the young captain, hardly more than a boy, whohad fought beside Conan against the beasts created by the Jewels ofKurag. The best part of ten years had made the manner sit better on him,like a masterpiece of a saddle on a horse, but had not changed it pastrecognition.

"If this question is either, may Erlik's hounds bite off your stones. Whatof my men?"

"We have given rites to three, and hold two honorably captive. Theothers have fled."

"May I see them?"

"When we have—"

"Now."

"Conan, you are hardly in the best position to make conditions."

"On the contrary, I'm in a fine position. You want something from me.As long as I refuse it, you are worse off than I."

"Your position could be made worse."

"How, without risking my death? Dead men help no living man'sschemes, as I'm sure I need not tell you."

Khezal muttered something that invoked unlawful parts of a number ofstill less lawful gods. Conan laughed.

"I'm not meaning to begin our new friendship with a quarrel. Not ifthere's to be a friendship, which I imagine there is, or I'd have awakenedwith my throat cut. But a quarrel, there'll be, if I can't see my men."

"Conan, by Erlik, Mitra, Vashti, and Crom, by the blood we have shed ineach other's company, by Dessa's lively legs, and by Pylia's fine breasts, Iswear that your men have come to no harm."

The Cimmerian laughed. "I can almost believe that oath. How fare theladies?"

Khezal's face turned sober. "Pylia is dead. The story goes that shechallenged some younger rival to see who could wear out the most men ina single night. She won, but died of her victory."

"Remembering Pylia, I can believe that. And Dessa?"

"She keeps her own tavern, after years as Pylia's most trusted girl. Stillcomely, the last time I saw her, and as we thought she might, thriving asshe never would have wed to some dull clerk."

"A wench after my own heart—"

"And other parts? Never mind, you are right. We are neither of us madeto be clerks, either."

"No, but I am made so that I will see those men of mine, whether youhelp or hinder."

"Conan, were I my own master—"

"The son of one of the Seventeen Attendants, not his own master? Tellme that shrimp sing bawdy ballads, and I will believe this more easily."

Khezal's face went taut and dark, and Conan instantly realized that hehad struck too deep, even in jest. He had indeed heard much of the affairsof Turan since Yezdigerd ascended the throne, to make him believe thateven a man like Khezal could fall from favor. After all, why otherwisewould the man be prowling the desert with Turanian cavalry patrols,instead of governing a whole province?

"I ask your pardon, Khezal. I spoke too hastily. But those men are swornto me, and I to them."

"I doubt it not. And I am sworn to defend Turan against all its enemies,among whom you are numbered. If I am to be forsworn, the fewer whoknow about it, the better for us all. Informers are always cheap, and thereis more than enough silver to buy them. The less you are seen until afterwe march, the better."

Conan had also heard that Turan now swarmed with spies as an ill-keptkitchen with vermin. If Khezal risked more than his authority over hismen— risked his own life, indeed—he deserved a hearing.

He also was a battle comrade, and it was not in Conan to forget the debthe owed to such.

"Let it be as you wish, Khezal. Tell me what you want of me, and I willtrust you for what comes next."

"You almost said that without smiling, Conan."

"Did I? Perhaps I'd best become a player in temple pageants, tocommand my face better."

"I remember seeing you draw—what was his name? Kilar?—anyway, theone with the loaded dice—into cheating you before a half-score ofwitnesses. One would have taken you for a temple image, not a templeplayer!"

"I'll thank you more for the flattery when I've heard you out. Or do thetent walls have ears?"

Khezal shrugged, then sat down cross-legged and began to speak.

Khezal had more trouble than expected, finding words to make thesituation in the Kezankian Mountains clear to the Cimmerian. It was notthat he distrusted Conan's wits—nobody but a fool thought the Cimmerianan overmuscled oaf, and not a few of such fools had over the years diedfrom their mistake.

It was that, put into plain Turanian words, the menace of the Valley ofthe Mists seemed an old peasant wife's tale, mumbled about the fire lateat night to frighten the children and the young maids into staying close tohome. Time after time, Khezal heard in his mind gusty Cimmerianlaughter, and hesitated before adding some detail he knew to be the truthor at least had heard from someone he trusted.

In the end, it was the Cimmerian who reduced

Khezal's words to a few brisk statements. He leaned back, managing inspite of the chains to appear as relaxed as a cream-filled cat. (It was onlywhen the Cimmerian was half-done that Khezal noticed there was play inthe rivets linking chains to wrist and leg irons that had not been there lastnight.)

"Something in the Kezankian Mountains is sending out raiders tosnatch villagers. The tale goes that they are taken to a place called theValley of the Mists and there sacrificed to demons."

"Some name it the Mist of Doom—" Khezal began, but Conan held up ahand with such regal dignity that the listener forgot that the hands werechained and the man himself sat upon a rough pallet, not a throne.

"If we quibble over every small detail, spies will have time to ride fromAghrapur to skulk outside the tent. If we would sound each other out onthis, best we do it quickly."

With that, Khezal could hardly disagree. The Cimmerian continued.

"The demon of the mist or whatever draws on old magic is strong in theKezankians. Fear and grief make the villagers there uneasy, also thenomad tribes between the mountains and the Turanian border. Or doesYezdigerd now claim all the land for the Kezankians and even beyond?"

"Not openly, but those with an ear for the king's true thoughts say so."

Conan snorted like a balky horse. "Trust that to set the Khorajans' teethon edge. They've learned to live in the shadow of Turan, they and the folkof Khauran. They'll mislike having Yezdigerd's garri-sons peering overtheir garden walls from the slopes of the mountains."

Khezal said nothing, as there was no reply he cared to make to plaintruth plainly stated. Rumors had run that Conan was developing a tastefor statecraft, or at least the art of reading kings' intentions. (Not unlikely,this last—any mercenary captain who wanted to stay alive past his firstemployment needed that art, though not all had it.)

"Is this whole tale of demons in the mountains perhaps put about by theKhorajans?" the Cimmerian insisted.

"Folk are vanishing, certainly," Khezal replied. "Those who fight theraiders too fiercely die by human weapons. The raiders at least arehuman, though none can say of what folk or race."

"Probably of every folk and race in the world, if I know the kind ofmercenary who hires out for this sort of dirty work," Conan said. "But nomatter. The question I put to you is, why does this concern you?"

"Because my family's estates lie hard against the mountains," Khezalsaid. "An inheritance from my mother, and not a great one even beforehalf went to dower my sister. But the villagers and their lands are mine."

Conan snorted again. "From what you said, I doubted that you had anylands left."

"I can tell all the sorry tales some other time and place, Conan. Here Ionly say that stripping me of my lands would have raised tempers, evenswords, against Yezdigerd. Sending me and my Greencloaks far afieldwhile royal agents bribe my stewards to send the revenues to Aghrapurrather than to me— that is too subtle for anyone to notice."

Conan muttered something that no listening ears could haveunderstood but that sounded to Khezal very much like a wish that KingYezdigerd would find his manhood failing him at an awkward moment.Then he shrugged.

"I don't doubt your loyalty to your folk. You always seemed like thatsort. But what will the king say? Will he say you do a lord's duty, or willsomeone whisper in his ear that you seek to win your people over torebellion?"

"You've grown longheaded with the years, Conan."

"Long or short, it's the only head I have, and of more use on myshoulders than on a spike outside some Turanian prison. Which is whereit's likely to end up if Yezdigerd calls this whole matter a plot againsthim."

Khezal took a deep breath, then let it out. It had been on the tip of histongue to question the Cimmerian's courage. But that would have been atone and the same time foolish, perilous, and without reason.

"If he learns about it before we're done, perhaps. If we winkle the secretout of the mountains soon enough, however—"

"I'll take my reward in a safe passage out of Turanian lands, at the veryleast."

"Then you'll ride with us?"

"For whatever good I can do, yes. I haven't fought nearly as manydemons as the tales run, though. Remember that."

"Not as many demons, but I'd wager even more men, and here you are,and where are they? Names carved on family tombs, if that much."

"Perhaps," Conan said. "I can't bind my men, however. They didn'tswear to follow me against demons. If they wish to leave, they have a safeconduct good from this day forth."

Khezal did not need to ask what the price of his refusal would be. But hehad to make one more effort, for the honor of his own men whose bloodthe Afghulis had shed.

"If they ride with you, I return—a certain bag— that was taken fromyou."

"With what was in it?"

Khezal smiled thinly. Perhaps the Cimmerian could be bought after all.

"Of course."

Conan sat up, so abruptly that Khezal drew back a pace. It was as wellthat he did. The Cimmerian flung his massive arms apart, the chainsnapped free of one wrist iron, and another cat-quick movement sent theend of the chain whipping through the space Khezal had just departed.

Khezal's hand went as far as the hilt of his dagger before his witsregained command of the member.

"I think you have made your point," he said, after he had also regainedcommand of his voice. "So I will not draw mine. One condition: I bringyour men to you, unless you wish to wait for night."

"I suppose no one will suspect plots over a couple of Afghuli captives,"Conan said. "As you wish. But bring some decent food for all of us whenyou do."

"You have had the best there is in the camp."

"What? No private stores for feasting in your tent?"

"None."

"I think I believe you, friend. Very well. More food, then, if not better.And the best doctor for their wounds, if he has not already seen them."

"He has, but he can come again."

"See that he does," the Cimmerian said. His tone was such that Khezalfelt an absurd wish to make the formal bow due to a governor or leader ofa host.

Instead he rose and walked out, erect but not turning his back on theCimmerian.

Six

After winning the temporary allegiance of Conan, Khezal's dearest wishwas to be gone on the quest for the Valley of the Mists as soon as possible.He would gladly have ridden out that very night, with his hundred bestGreencloaks.

Indeed, he would have mortgaged a small estate, or even a large one, topay a friendly wizard to turn all his men's cloaks into wings, that theymight fly on the wind to the Kezankian Mountains. Thus might theyoutspeed the tales of their coming, surprising the demons and theirhuman servants. Thus might they also settle the matter of the mountains'demons before word of Conan's presence reached unfriendly ears inAghrapur.

However, Khezal was of much the same mind as Conan—the words"friendly" and "wizard" did not belong in the same sentence. Both wouldalso have doubted that even a wizard who professed friendship would keepa bargain, rather than taking his gold and fleeing at once for the land of

the Hyperboreans.

In any case, the lack of magical assistance for the journey north wasonly the first and least of Khezal's frustrations. The next was Conan'sinsistence on waiting until the two Afghulis who were riding north were fitto travel.

"Do you doubt my word, that they will be safe here among theGreencloak garrison of the Virgin's Oasis?" Khezal asked, laughing tocover his fury.

Conan, wholly sober, shook his head. "I doubt not your word, not evenyour command over your men as long as your eye is on them. But your eyewill be on the slopes of the Kezankians, and your men here. That's anothermatter, and the name for the matter would be 'blood feud' if anythinghappened to the Afghulis."

Khezal considered this. Neither he nor any Turanian had much love forthe Afghulis, but they were not among the realm's leading foes. TheIranistanis were otherwise—and the Afghulis were even less friendly toIranistan than to Turan. There would hardly be gratitude toward a manwho made blood foes of Turan among the Afghulis.

More important than any lack of gratitude in court circles would be theenmity of proven captains in war. Khezal would have endangered their men, and imperiled their victories. Lack of gratitude among courtiers,Khezal could endure. Knives in the dark, wielded on the orders of menwhom he had trusted to guard his back from Yezdigerd, would make lifesin-gularly futile for the short time it might last.

"As you wish. I trust that your friends are as hardy as the tale-tellershave them, though. We do not want one of my enemies ambushing us withhalf a regiment as we cross the caravan route, because a spy has told a talein the palace!"

"Khezal, I am no more a lover of palaces and what goes on in them thanyou are. Trust me for that, and my Afghulis for swift healing."

To Khezal's relief, the Afghulis were standing within a day and ridingwithin two. They moved stiffly at first, but that they were fighting-fit wasproved on the third day.

A groom boy, so green that he had hardly wiped his mother's milk fromhis lips, grew curious about Farad's dagger. He reached out to touchit—and found himself on his back some paces away, lip split and severalteeth scattered about on the sand.

"The lad should call himself lucky," was all Khezal could get out of

Conan. "And you should call your chief groom a fool, for letting into thefield a witling who'll touch another's steel without asking."

"That won't heal the boy."

Conan shrugged, then dipped into his belt pouch. An Iranistani silverprince-piece came out. The Cimmerian tossed it high, then slapped it outof the air with one hand, into the palm of another.

"Here. Even a fool deserves a trifle of poppy syrup to soothe his hurts."

"Perhaps I should hold on to those jewels after all. We may need themto silence the angry and heal the hurt, if we have many more of theseexchanges."

"At your pleasure, my friend. But I will talk to Farad and Sorbim, if youwill talk to your people."

"I will, and pray to Mitra that all listen!"

"Halt! Who seeks to pass?"

Captain Muhbaras's mind had lurched up out of sleep before his bodywas ready to follow. That sentry had to be one of the new recruits, a"settled" nomad. How settled any of the tribesmen could become was amatter of some debate. It was evident that he had not learned sentry drillas thoroughly as could be wished.

The reply came in a woman's voice, which finished the work ofawakening the captain's body. He could make out no words, but there wasno need for that. The only women out and about here by night were theMaidens of the Mist, and the most likely reason they would be here wassomething either dire, urgent, or both.

Across the single room in the hut, blankets roiled and heaved like waterin a millrace. A round face with a crinkly black chin beard rose above theblankets, like an otter surfacing from a dive.

"A woman?" the face said. The mouth was a thin gash, unwholesomelyout of proportion to the rest of the face. It always seemed a marvel to thecaptain that Ermik's tongue was not forked, like that of a serpent.

"A Maiden."

"Ah. No doubt seeking to end that—"

In a moment the captain was out of his blankets and off his pallet. Inanother moment he had taken two strides and was standing over theother. His hand was on the hilt of his sword. His gaze was fixed on the wall

of the hut.

If he allowed his gaze to drift downward, he knew he might draw thesword and thrust it into the thick neck below the round face. That wouldsilence the greasy voice, but raise a howling and a shrieking back inKhoraja that would not end until he himself was dead, and likely many ofhis men dead with him. Men he had sworn to lead out of these Hell-cursedmountains, as he had sworn to lead them in.

"You may think that, if you wish, and risk both body and soul if theLady of the Mist hears your thoughts. Do not ever let them pass your lips.Not where a Maiden can hear them. Not where I can hear them. Notwhere a hawk, a mouse, or a beetle can hear them!

"Do you understand?"

The small dark eyes above the blankets resembled a pig's eyes, but theywere as unblinking as a serpent's.

"Do you?" the captain repeated.

"I do."

"Then hold your tongue and go back to sleep."

"I must visit the—"

"After I am done with the Maiden."

The other's mouth opened again, and the captain's hand tightened onthe age-darkened leather of the sword's grip. Even one bawdy word fromthe other might send him over the brink—and perhaps he could buy hislife and his men's by saying that the Maidens would have slain Ermik, theGrand Council's spy, had the captain not done so.

The Maidens—or their mistress. It would sound dreadful enough topersuade the Council.

Indeed, it might even be the truth.

"Do not be long."

The other could foul his blankets for all that the captain cared, save thatthe hut reeked enough as it was.

"I shall be no longer than the Maiden detains me. How long that will bedepends on her errand, and I offer you another piece of wisdom."

"Will you have any wisdom left if you keep offering me pieces of it?"

The captain ignored the pert reply as he would have the yelping of a curin the streets. "The shorter the time I am gone, the worse the news the

Maiden bears."

That opened Ermik's eyes agreeably wide. They stared after the captainas he strode out into the night.

Conan was seated cross-legged on a carpet in the Afghulis' tent,watching the surgeon's Vendhyan slave tend Farad's wounds. Before himon the rug stood a jug of wine. A small bribe had procured it from thesurgeon's stores, and after a cup of it, Conan felt a trifle more reconciled tothe world as it was.

The slave jerked a dressing from Farad's ribs, taking a scab with it.Blood trickled, Farad glared, the slave cringed and muttered somethingunder his breath. It was probably not a curse, although, like mostVendhyans, the slave could hardly be overly fond of Afghulis. Centuries ofborder raids, burned villages, and looted caravans had seen to that.

However, Conan understood several of the Ven-dhyan dialects, and thefirst time the slave ill-wished the Afghulis, he said as much. He added thatif the slave could not keep his tongue between his teeth by the power of hiswill, either his tongue or his teeth might be removed, or perhaps his lipssewn shut. Mutes were not always the best slaves, but if muting themimproved their manners—

The slave could hardly have abased himself more, or more swiftlypromised good behavior in the future.

The Vendhyan was quickly but deftly putting a fresh dressing on Farad'sbattered ribs when tramping feet thudded outside the tent. Before anyonecould give warning, Captain Khezal pushed his way into the tent.

Neither his sudden coming nor the look on his face made Khezal seemthe bearer of good news. When with one look he sent the slave fleeing as ifscorpions were nesting in his breeches, he made Conan certain of this.

He did not even venture to guess what the bad news might be; Khezal'sscheme was one likely to go awry at half a dozen points before they evensighted the peaks of the Kezankians. Nor was the Cimmerian's knowledgeof Turan's intrigues or the nomads' feuds what it had been. The bad newsmight be something altogether unconnected with the quest for the Valleyof the Mists.

At least Conan thought he could trust Khezal to tell him all of the truththat any man not of Turan could be trusted to know. That was more thancould be said of more than a few leaders Conan had followed.

"We have found the remaining Afghulis," Khezal said.

"Rejoice," Farad replied. Conan trusted that Khezal did not hear theironic note in the Afghuli's voice.

"Or rather, they have found those who sought them," Khezal went on."They laid an ambush even more cunning than I had expected from suchskilled warriors."

"Flattery may raise hearts," Conan said. "It also uses time, of which Isuspect we have but little, unless there is no more to your tale."

"Forgive me, Conan. I forgot that you were never a courtier."

"Improve your memory, then, my friend. Nor will I become a courtiersoon enough to let you babble to no purpose."

Khezal took a deep breath. "It is to some purpose to know that theAfghulis who fled are unharmed. They unhorsed a half-score Greencloaksand took three as hostages to a cave. They have threatened the hostageswith gelding and other harsh fates if Conan and any living Afghulis inTuranian hands are not freed at once."

Farad saved Conan the trouble of a swift reply by bursting into laughterthat could doubtless be heard all over the camp. Khezal's face colored, andhe looked at the ceiling of the tent, as if he wished the sky would fall on theAfghulis or him or both, to end this shameful moment.

At last both Farad and Khezal gained command of themselves, and intothe silence Conan thrust a few words. "Then we must ride out at once, toprove that we are alive and free before they begin working on your men."

"What if I refuse to let you go?" Khezal asked. His eyes searched Conan'sface, rather as if he were judging the temper of a horse he wished to buy."This could be a scheme to escape. The nomads would doubtless pay youmuch for your knowledge of our camp."

"The nomads would pay us in slit throats after torturing the knowledgeout of us, unless we contrived to die fighting them," Conan snapped. "Donot waste time or breath by testing me, Khezal. Not if you wish to keepyour men whole."

"One must admit that there are fewer posts for eunuchs than there oncewere," Khezal said. He might almost have been meditating. Conan had torespect the inward courage that let the captain command himself inmatters like this.

"So I will trust you and your Afghuli comrades to make no attempt toescape," the captain continued. "And I will also trust you to contrive thereturn of my men, whole and fit to fight. Otherwise we have no agreement,and I will look under every rock and grain of sand in this desert to find

you."

Conan knew when a man accustomed to commanding his temper wasabout to lose it. He made no protest at Khezal's terms, but begangathering his weapons and harness.

Captain Muhbaras's notion that he would hear bad news swiftly did notlast long. He began to wish he had used some more prudent words tosilence the spy. As it was, the man would either suspect a lie or frethimself into folly well before the captain returned.

There was, however, not one thing under the gods' sky that the captaincould do about this problem, without paying the mortal price of offendingthe Lady of the Mists.

Nor would giving such offense please the spy. He had made it plainerthan a fruit-seller in the bazaar crying his wares; his purpose here was tospeed the work of the alliance with the Lady of the Mists to the peril ofTuran and the profit of Khoraja.

It was therefore just barely possible that the spy needed the captainmore than the captain needed him. The captain resolved to rememberthat as he followed his escort of Maidens into the valley.

Escort or guard? One walked ahead, and one on either side save wherethe path was too narrow for more than one pair of feet. Then the flankersstepped forward to join the leader.

No less than four Maidens walked behind the captain. He turned twiceto stare at them, and each time their leader gave him a look that wouldhave frozen the manhood of a god. The others lightly brushed their handsto the hilts of their swords.

After that the captain was entirely certain that he was going either tohis own death or to something that he would doubtless protest almost asviolently. It was some small consolation to know that the Lady thought shemight need steel as well as spells to ward him off. Entering the Valley ofthe Mists, the captain did not feel nearly that formidable.

He felt still less so as they passed within the cleft, through the two greatgates, and on to a trail that climbed the cliff to the left of the entrance.The trail was wide enough for two abreast, but it climbed so steeply thatin places the rock was shaped into steps. In the twilight, and taking carenot to stumble, the captain could not be sure what shapes were carvedinto those steps. He doubted that the knowledge was either necessary orwholesome.

In the twilight, the valley itself did nothing to ease a man's mind. Twowalls of mountain stretched away into shadows whose blue and purplehues seemed against nature. Overhead the stars were coming out with asavage brightness, even as the last light drained from the western sky.Mist gathered here, there, and everywhere, according to no pattern thecaptain recognized, gray tendrils rising to dance and swirl with thesinuosity of living beings.

The captain had the sense of entering a vast temple, so long ruined thatit was roofless and naked to the stars, but whose walls and altars ofsacrifice were yet intact. Intact, and bound by great and dreadful magic toremain that way until some nameless purpose was fulfilled.

He shivered from more than the chill of the night air, and was gladwhen the trail turned into a cave and the cave into a tunnel carved fromthe wall of the valley. Torches lit the party's way, and twice they surprisedthe misshapen half-human slaves of the valley tending to the lights.

Again the captain rejoiced that the light was too dim to let him seeevery unwholesome detail of the half-men. Or women—he was sure thatone of them was a woman, barely past girlhood, and he fought back theurge to spew or perform rites of aversion.

Neither was acceptable to the Lady.

Muhbaras's modest pleasure lasted only until his guards led him into asmall, almost intimate chamber. Its rock walls hid behind tapestrieswoven with archaic figures of dragons and giant birds, and a brazierglowing in the middle of it further warmed the air beyond what thecaptain had expected.

There was, however, no warmth in the Lady's face as she sat in herhabitual cross-legged position on a silk cushion, the cushion in turnelevated on a stool carved from a single piece of Vendhyan teak. To showthat he was not afraid, the captain sought to make out the figures carvedin the stool, but ended being more unsettled than before as he failed tomake sense of the carvings.

They were animals, birds, and things that had the shape of men but alsosubtle differences. They were nothing as simple as the Serpent Men ofValusia, who would have been almost a relief.

Muhbaras knew that custom required him to wait for the Lady tospeak, as if she were a queen or near-kin to one. He also knew that thiscustom allowed the Lady to sit and study those who came before her for aslong as it pleased her, rather like a serpent studying a particularlysucculent bird.

By sheer force of will, Muhbaras had not grown uneasy and wasstanding as still as the seven Maidens when the Lady at last spoke.

"One of your warriors has looked upon a Maiden with the desire of aman for a woman."

The captain inclined his head, as graciously as he could contrive. Unlessthe Lady was altogether a raving madwoman, there had to be more to thematter. And as he was not a raving madman, he would let her reveal that"more" before he opened his own mouth.

It seemed that half the night crawled by, in a silence rivaling that of thegraveyard. The captain began to suspect that the Lady was testing hiscourage, and vowed to pass any test she might set him.

At last the Lady sighed. She was garbed in a robe made of a singlethickness of silk, so thin that Muhbaras could see her breasts lift under itwith the sigh. He cast his eyes and thoughts elsewhere, and inclined hishead again.

"Do you not wish to know more, Khorajan?" the Lady asked. Her voicehad the quality of a fine steel blade slicing equally fine silk. In another itmight have seemed intended to arouse desire. In the Lady it seemed onlyintended to arouse slavish obedience.

"I wish to know all that my Lady of the Mists sees fit to tell me. I doventure to add that the more she tells me, the more likely we are to resolvethis matter peaceably."

"Peace requires the death of the soldier who offended. Anything less willmean no peace."

The captain waited, until he realized that he was expected to reply tothose bald words, as naked of mercy as the rocks of the mountains or thevultures circling above them. Common sense told him that negotiationwas futile. Honor bound him to try.

"A lesser penalty will still suffice to keep the man—"

"No lesser penalty will suffice in any way, in the eyes of the gods."

Which gods ? the captain wondered, not quite reverently. Although theLady might be unwilling or unable to answer, having confused her ownwill with that of the gods—a vice not unknown among less powerfulmortals, or the captain would not have been here in honorable if perilousexile from his native city.

"Honor to the gods and to you, my Lady," the captain said. "But if nodeed of desire has been done—"

"The eyes give passage to the soul. Your soldier's soul has touched theMaiden."

Muhbaras had not heard that from any priest, but had long sinceceased to expect the Lady to be bound by any common notions ofpriestcraft. He would have liked to know what did bind her, and stillhoped to learn something of that, but did not expect that this night wouldbe the time.

The Lady's wrath in the face of disobedience would doubtless betempered by her need for himself and his men. Yet even her temperedwrath could leave him unfit for duty for some time, which Ermik could putto use to usurp the captain's authority.

Moreover, the Lady (who was seldom ill informed) might know of thespy's coming and his favor in Khoraja. She might think that he could beput into the captain's place as a more pliant tool.

That would be folly in the Lady. But the captain had never heard thatwitches were less foolish than common folk.

"Give me the name of the man, then, and I will have him straitlyconfined, questioned, and brought before you."

"His name is Danar son of Araubas, and he has already been confinedby my Maidens and their servants. His guilt is proven beyond need forfurther questioning. I summoned you here out of courtesy, that you mightnot wonder what had become of him. I only ask you: Do you wish towitness his passing or not?"

The moment the captain heard the name of the condemned man, heknew at least some truth without needing to ask questions the Lady wouldnot answer. Danar was youthful, courteous, and by all reports, mostpleasing to a woman's eye. If he had looked with desire on any woman,Maiden, crone, or a very goddess, it was because she had so looked uponhim first!

That truth would not save Danar, however. It would most likelycondemn the Maiden as well as Danar—and whatever hope the Maidens'womanliness might give to the captain would be flung off the cliff alongwith Danar.

That would be the method of execution—that or some other passing fitfor a soldier. No more blackened and reeking tongues dealing a death thateven the most hardened Stygian torturer would call harsh. The captainwould save his man's soul, if he could not save his body.

"Very well. I will consent to all that you have asked, on one condition. I

will speak alone with Danar son of Araubas, and bear any last wishes tohis kin. Otherwise I will make no promises whatever in this matter."

Muhbaras ventured to look the Lady squarely in the eyes. He saw for thefirst time flecks of brown in their blazing gold, and faint shadows on theeyelids below the finely plucked eyebrows.

In another woman, he would have said those eyes would look very wellwidening on a pillow as she gave and took pleasure. With the Lady of theMists, that was a thought to drive from one's mind as one drove a maddog from the nursery.

"By my honor and my bond with the Mists, I pledge to grant you that, ifthe man be living when you come to him."

That left an opening for treachery through which one could have driventhe elephants of the royal menagerie, but Muhbaras judged it wise tomake no further argument. He bowed his head and made the ritualKhorajan gestures of binding himself with blood and steel to fulfill a vow.

Then he straightened. "The man is more likely to be living if I gostraight to him. Is that permitted?"

The Lady nodded. Silently she raised a hand, and the Maidens gatheredabout the captain to lead him out of the chamber.

Conan rode north in the vanguard of fifty Green-cloaks. Farad andSorbim rode beside him, their gazes making a complete circle aroundtheir chief every few moments.

Ten paces to the Cimmerian's right, Khezal rode with three pickedGreencloaks. They kept a similar watch out for his safety.

"Conan," Khezal called, across the gap. "What would you have done if Ihad refused to let you ride north?"

"I remember a wise captain who said that 'if is a word for priests andscribes, not fighting men."

"I remember that when the wise captain said that, he was teaching ayoung Cimmerian who has since become a wise captain in his own right."

"Indeed, I would have owed the other captain an answer to such aquestion," the Cimmerian said, in a dangerously level voice. "Do I owe youas much?"

"He taught me also, and there is another reason for you to thinkcarefully before you refuse. I do not teach. I lead men, who, like me, mustknow how far we can trust you."

Conan muttered a few oaths, but within he was rallying his thoughts.Indeed, Khezal was in a position wherein the trust of his men was life ordeath. Anything that could help strengthen that trust, and would notweaken Conan, was Khezal's right.

"So be it," Conan said. "Had you refused, I would still have gone north,with Farad and Sorbim. No Greencloak would have suffered, save thosefoolish enough to stand in our path. We might even have saved thecaptives."

"And if you could not?" one Greencloak said. Khezal shot the man abarbed look, but Conan held up a hand.

"No, the answer's his right as well as yours. If they had to die, theywould have died as whole men, or at least not without rites."

The Greencloak looked more content than his captain. Conan spat intothe sand. Khezal was wiser than the Cimmerian intended to tell him forsome while, but there was much he needed to learn about Afghulis andthose the tribesmen called chief.

Seven

Conan rode well to the fore, flanked by Farad and Sorbim. They werecareful to keep their distance from the Greencloaks, without moving out ofbowshot. That would smell of an attempt to escape, and no goodwill thatKhezal bore the Cimmerian would stay the captain's command to hisarchers to shoot.

There also might be other men of warlike disposition roaming thispatch of desert, besides Turanians and Afghulis. Among them, the threeriders left no part of the horizon unwatched, nor the ranks of Turanianriders behind them.

Khezal had said the place where peacemaking was direly needed mightbe two hours away at a fast pace, as much as three at one that spared thehorses. Conan stood silent as to which pace they should use, but gave theworld a dusty grin as he saw the Turanians settle down to a pace that theirmounts could keep up all day.

This was much as he had expected, Khezal being no fool. However, evenwise men had been known to hasten unwisely, if they thought this wouldshow loyalty and help keep their heads on their shoulders.

Conan had no quarrel with any such desire in Khezal. He only insistedthat Khezal's head not survive at the price of his and his Afghulis'.

Everyone's head remained not only on his shoulders but clear and alertduring that first hour. They were riding out from a well-supplied,well-watered camp, and even the newest to the ranks of the Greencloakswas a veteran of at least five years' service.

Watching the ranks of desert-wise riders behind him and rememberingtheir gallant fight at the rocks, Conan felt a twinge of regret at his flightfrom Turanian service. The officer whose mistress he had "stolen" (a wordhe always resented, considering how willingly the lady had come to him)had been a friend of then-Prince Yezdigerd. Even if others had been ableto patch up a truce between Conan and the officer, the lady would surelyhave suffered. The truce would also have ended the moment Yezdigerd felthimself secure enough on the throne to do such minor favors for hisfriends as handing them a Cimmerian's head…

No, it was as well to be out of Turanian service. It would have beenbetter to be out of Turanian reach altogether, but Conan had small choiceif he was to do his duty by the Afghulis who had exiled themselves out ofloyalty to him. He could trust Khezal for everything the nobleman couldcontrol, and as for the rest, the Cimmerian trusted to his sword arm andsteel—which had kept him above ground for a good many years and hadnot grown slack or dull in Afghulistan.

They were halfway through the second hour of their journey whenConan saw the horseman on a distant ridge to the north.

Danar son of Araubas looked rather better than his captain hadexpected when the two Khorajans met in the low rocky chamber where theyounger man was confined awaiting execution. A second look toldMuhbaras that the walls had once been bricked, more centuries ago thanhe cared to think about.

What he faced now was quite sufficiently disagreeable—and as nothingcompared to what Danar might face if his luck were out.

Four Maidens had escorted the captain to the entrance of the chamber,so low that he had to stoop to enter—and he was not tall for a Khorajan.Four other Maidens were already on guard, which seemed none too fewwhen the captain saw that the door itself was only a woven screen ofrushes. A child with a toy dagger could have cut his way through that to abrief freedom, before the guards cut him down.

But none of the Maidens approached it, and on the floor the captainsaw a dead mouse and more than a few dead insects. When a Maiden didopen the screen, she did it with the bronze point of a spear whose shaft

was carved into unpleasantly familiar if still incomprehensible runes. Shealso wore an amulet of feathers and small rose- and amethyst-hued stonebeads, and moved as cautiously as if the floor might open up and swallowher at a misstep.

The captain had seldom moved with such exquisite care as when hestooped and entered Danar's chamber. He would have gone down on hishands and knees to avoid touching the screen if it had been necessary.

To his mild surprise, the Maiden with the spear raised the screen highenough to spare him that humiliation. He said his thanks to her in hisheart, knowing that even if she would keep the secret, her comrades wouldnot. The Lady of the Mists kept her Maidens, if not at one another'sthroats, at least looking over one another's shoulders.

Doubtless the Lady knew that this could do harm in a battle against aserious foe. Comrades who had to fear one another's tongues as much asthey did the enemy's steel could hardly be called comrades at all.

Just as certainly, the Lady was more concerned about keeping theMaidens loyal to her. A serious foe, she no doubt thought, would not enterthe Valley of the Mists before her work was done.

It was no pleasure to Muhbaras to realize that the Lady of the Mists wasquite probably right.

Even Conan's hawk-keen sight could make out little about the rider,other than that he rode a horse and wore dark robes.

"Which is the garb of half the tribes in this land," Khezal said when herode up to move level with the Cimmerian. Otherwise they made nochange of pace or formation, so that from a distance the watcher mightthink they had not seen him.

"Yes, and no doubt the garb of the other half when they go long enoughwithout washing," Farad said.

"Speak for yourself, rock-crawler," Sergeant Barak muttered, before aglare from both Conan and Khezal silenced their followers.

The watcher seemed to have chosen a good post, overlooking the easiestmarch route but not actually on it. As they drew closer, the watcher drewback, and Conan saw that he was retreating toward a nightmarish tangleof ravines and rocks. A band half again the size of the Turanians couldhide in that land, and seeking one man in it would take the rest of the daybefore they had to admit failure.

A few hundred paces farther on, the ground before the Turanians alsogrew rough. They could slow to a trot that made for easy conversationwithout revealing anything to the watcher.

The conversation was brief.

"The tribes could not have sent too many men into this area," Khezalsaid. "Otherwise the patrol's messenger could not have returned to campto warn us."

"Unless they let the messenger through with the purpose of drawing usout into an ambush," Conan added.

"We have still done more than before, in keeping the large bands to thesouth and west," Khezal insisted. "One doubts that our number ofGreencloaks has much to fear from any number of tribesmen who may lieahead."

It would be unwise to dispute with Khezal before his own men, andConan had little wish to do so. The Turanian captain might even be right.Still…

"Far be it from me to speak against your men," the

Cimmerian said. "But what of your men and my Afghulis? I wager thatthe tribesmen consider all alike lawful prey. If the tribesman havesurrounded them since last night—"

"You see clearly. Yet only a large tribal band could maintain such asiege and still mount an ambush against us."

Conan had paid with his own blood and seen comrades pay with theirsfor a captain's saying that "the enemy could not do so-and-so." Prophecywas a matter for sorcerers and the less honest sort of priest (which to theCimmerian's mind was most of the breed).

Once again, the Cimmerian would not undermine Khezal's authority orflaunt his doubts of the prowess of the hosts of Turan (which, if half thetales he had heard were true, had indeed notably increased underYezdigerd the Ambitious). This left him with few choices.

"I think we still need to fear an ambush. Is there another route to ourdestination, besides the shortest one? You know this land better than I."

"Indeed, and most of my men, better than I. There is such a way, longerand rougher."

"Does it offer more or less to ambushers?"

"Less, if my memory serves."

"It had better still serve for more than remembering which wench iswilling, my friend. I suggest that you send six of your Greencloaks with meand my Afghulis, and we ride the main route. Those waiting will have tostrike at us, or let us strike their comrades from the rear. Meanwhile, youtake the rest of your men by the longer route."

Khezal looked at his men and then at the desert ahead. He nodded.

"I mislike the danger to you, but it's no worse than you have survived.Just bring my Greencloaks back safe, or at least give proof of theirhonorable passing."

"If they pass any other way, I shall go with them," Conan said.

"Do not be too eager to go where there is neither wine, women, norgood battles," Khezal said with a grin. "We shall never be able to properlycelebrate our victories on this quest, I fear. I still do not wish to turn downcups to absent comrades!"

"How fare you, Captain?" Danar asked, when the dim oil lamp allowedhim to recognize his superior.

Muhbaras started. He had expected Danar to be physically andmentally a ruin, already halfway to death. He had not expected the youngsoldier to be concerned about his captain's health!

The younger man grinned. "I have not been mistreated, save for eatingbread that is mostly husks and shells. I think it is what they feed to thosehalf-men in the fields."

"No doubt," the captain said. He gazed at the walls and the ensorceledrush screen with what he hoped was an eloquent glance.

Danar shrugged. "I know the walls have ears and probably eyes. If youhave any last gift for me, it is that you do not think me a fool."

Muhbaras assured Danar that he thought no such thing. He wished hecould assure himself that there was some way of giving Danar a lawful oreven easy death, and that he could communicate it to the man. Withoutsome preparation, it would be hard to do anything swiftly enough to avoidthe notice and wrath of the Lady of the Mists.

The captain knew he could not face that peril. He did not care whathappened to him, save that his death would doubtless put Ermik incommand of the mission to the valley. Then every sort of dire fate wouldloom over the men.

It was possible that Danar might have to face a hard death, for the sake

of his comrades. How to tell him that, and how to sleep at night after ithappened?

I grow too old for intrigues , Muhbaras decided. Give me a last battleagainst a worthy foe, and I will not care if I survive it .

"Do you know if the Lady seeks your—'life essence' or whatever they callit in their priest-talk?" the captain asked.

Danar shrugged again. "Perhaps, hence the good treatment. Perhapsnot, also, if they think it has been corrupted by unlawful lust."

"Knowing that a woman like one of the Maidens is fair is never unlawful," Muhbaras snapped. "Only a blind man could avoid doing so,and I am sure the Lady does not wish to be served by blind men oreunuchs."

It was Danar's turn to look meaningfully at the walls. "No," he said, buthe did not meet the captain's eyes. Also, there was something in his voice,even in that single word…

I will not even think the question, "Did anything happen between youand the Maiden, more than glances?"

Wrapped in a kerchief in his belt pouch, Muhbaras had a small bronzeknife, suitable to rest under a lady's pillow but capable of letting out life ifapplied in the right place. Now he pulled out the kerchief and bent overDanar, seemingly to wipe sweat or perhaps dew from the soldier'sforehead.

Before he could touch Danar, the younger man's hand seemed to floatup and grip the captain's wrist. It was a grip that would have lookedgentle from a few paces away, but was actually as unbreakable as an ironshackle without more effort than the captain cared to make.

With his mouth only a hand's breadth from his captain's ear, Danarwhispered, "Guard yourself for my comrades, and do not worry about me.I have other friends."

The words left as much mystery behind as ever, but the tone was that ofa man walking to meet his fate with firm step and open eyes.

May I do as well as Danar, if my time comes while I am within reachof the Lady of the Mists.

After that there was nothing to say but formal words that would makeeasy hearing for listening ears, a final grip of forearms, and the captain'sdeparture. He even deferred his prayers of thanks to Mitra until he wasnot only outside the chamber but out of sight and hearing of the Maidens

on guard.

Even farther along the path, he wondered if the madness was spreading.And if so, was this the Lady's ultimate prize—or did she have somethingstill worse in hand for the Valley of the Mists and all within it?

Khezal added one stratagem to the plan he and Conan had conceived.He detached a dozen or so Greencloaks to remain behind both of the otherbands, to ride in circles and raise a prodigious cloud of dust.

"Even the most desert-wise tribesman will think that the more dust, themore men," Khezal said. "More unfriendly eyes will be on them, fewer onthe rest of us as we slip off about our lawful occasions."

Conan made a Cimmerian gesture of aversion. Khezal nodded. "That isnot all they will do, either. Once they have thrown dust in our enemies'eyes, they will follow us by yet a third route. Slowest of all, it will still letthem come to the aid of either of the other bands. They may even be ableto slip behind an ambush and turn it against those who laid it."

Conan grinned, and this time made an Afghuli gesture for hailing anhonored chief. There was not much he could teach Khezal about arrayingmen for battle, and he would waste no more time trying.

Instead he signaled to his men, as one of Khezal's sergeants rode outwith the dozen dust-raisers. The two Afghulis cantered up and drew rein,the Green-cloaks assembled under the watchful eye of Sergeant Barak andtheir captain, and the dust rose high.

It also rose thick, thanks to the dropping of the wind. Thus Conan ledhis men off down the dry wash that opened their chosen route with littlefear of unfriendly eyes counting them, let alone seeing them. He still kepthis eyes searching the rocks and ridges to the left, while Farad searched tothe right, and Sobrim studied their Greencloak comrades.

Conan did not think that cold-blooded treachery was in theGreencloaks. But no discipline could keep from a soldier's mind thethought of avenging a comrade or kin, and men with such losses mightwell be riding at Conan's back. It was a circumstance he had survivedmore than a few times, but only by taking nothing for granted.

Then the dry wash gave on a real valley, with rocky slopes rising, itseemed, halfway to the sky on either side. The floor of the valley was level,fit for quick movement if one cared little for the endurance of one's horses.

Conan held the pace to a trot while he studied the slopes. The rockscould hide a small army of ambushers, but there were broad stretches of

ground where a dog could not hide and a surefooted horse could descendat a good pace.

So far, Khezal had not sent them into any place where aid could notreach them—if aid were sent.

Farad seemed to read the Cimmerian's thoughts.

"So far, that Khezal lad seems well enough to obey."

"The 'lad' is only a trifle younger than you are, Farad."

"In years only, or in battles?"

"Talk to him sometime, when our comradeship is a trifle fartheralong—"

"I will be too old to do more than croak like a marsh frog if I wait thatlong."

"Did anyone ever tell you that interrupting your captain is ill done?"

"You are my chief, not my captain. The ways of lowland armies, fit onlyto fight women, are not for the Afghulis."

"The way of Cimmerians with those whose tongues wag to no purpose isto knock them about the head until the tongues are still."

Farad and Sorbim exchanged glances, and Conan could see themreaching the conclusion that their "chief was not speaking entirely in jest.Farad muttered something that Conan chose to take as an apology, andthey rode on in silence.

Eight

In the outer world (which now seemed to Captain Muhbaras a distantmemory, except as a place to seek captives for the Lady's sacrifices) itwould still be full daylight. But the sun was already behind the walls of theValley of the Mists, and purple shadows were swallowing the valley floor.

They were also creeping up the walls. The captain hoped this businesswould be done before they reached the cave mouth where he stood,watched or perhaps guarded by eight of the Maidens. He supposed it wasan honor that he was considered so worthy of either respect or fear that hehad so many Maidens assigned entirely to him.

He knew it was an honor he would cease to appreciate if he was not onhis way back to his quarters before darkness filled the valley. He had neverbeen so far into the valley this late in the day, but apparently there was

some mystical reason (or at least excuse) for putting an end to Danar's lifeat this particular time.

There was nothing in sight in the valley that Muhbaras had not seenbefore. Nor did he care to look at the Maidens. With his graying hair anddisplay of scars, he might be considered too old to be looking at them withlust. With his weapons he might be suspected of planning to rescue hisman, which could bring an even swifter and hardly less dire fate.

Having decided, reluctantly, not to sacrifice his life to speed the endingof Danar's, the captain refused to contemplate perishing as a result of amistake (although that was the fate of most soldiers, even if the mistakemight be a healer's instead of a captain's).

He could still study the Maidens as a visitor might study the guards of aprince's palace, judging their fitness for battle and other matters ofinterest to soldiers. If the Lady argued that point, he would have to discusswith her certain things that his duties to her required, however much shemight despise soldiers, men, outsiders, or whatever it was that made thosecat's eyes sometimes flare with a killing rage.

The eight Maidens here now were mostly above average height,although only two were taller than Muhbaras. None had the eye-catchingnorthern fairness, but none had the round features and close-curled hairthat in some Maidens hinted of Black Kingdoms blood.

Indeed, the Lady of the Mists seemed to have recruited her Maidens (oraccepted those who offered themselves) from every known land save Khitaiand perhaps Vendhya. (And there were Maidens who seemed to bear atrace of Vendhyan blood; perhaps full Vendhyan women were too slight forthe burdens of war?)

Few (here, only one of the eight) could be called truly beautiful. But allof them had grace, strength, suppleness, and knowledge of their weapons.There was not one the captain had seen whom he would have cast outfrom a war band—or refused in his bed.

Perhaps the Lady of the Mists knew more about the art of war than hesuspected. She seemed to have picked warriors to guard her, at any rate,and the captain had known lords descended from long lines of soldierswhose household troops would not meet that test. Those fat sots at LordCleakas's—they would be mice facing cats if the Maidens ever came overthe walls—

A measured, distant drumbeat stole on Muhbaras's ears. He lookedabout, saw nothing, but heard the drumbeat swelling. Now he heard twodrums, not quite together, the shuffle of feet, and the faintest chinking of

armor.

Danar son of Araubas was coming up to his last moments of life.

The captain took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, and with it aprayer to as many gods as he could name with that much breath.

Defend Danar's honor, all you who honor courage.

Before Conan's little band was done with the second hour of its journey,the Cimmerian's war-trained blue eyes had picked twenty spots wherethey could have been ambushed. Perhaps ten against a larger band, but nofewer than twenty against the handful he led, and perhaps more.

He decided that he could well have taken his own advice to Khezal, andnot thought the enemy's chief less wise than he appeared to be. Conan'sband was too small to do much harm to the chief's plans even if it reachedits destination intact. It could be ignored while the tribesmen assembledagainst Khezal.

Or perhaps the chief had divided his band in turn, and would engagethe Cimmerian at the last moment with a handful of men, too few to besent far from their main body. If Conan overcame the ambush, he wouldonly be set upon by superior strength when he had exhausted his.

The Cimmerian gave a mirthless chuckle. The chief knew neitherCimmerians, Afghulis, nor (to do them justice) the picked desert riders ofYezdigerd's host if he thought them easy to weary. His men would pay inblood for that mistake.

One thing Conan knew: The watcher on the ridge was no trick of theeyes or the heat of the desert. So battle, there would be, and beforenightfall.

That time was not so far away as it had been. The shadows were longer,even if the heat was hardly less. Above distant hilltops, carrion birds thathad sought their nests during the worst of the day now circled, blackspecks against harsh blue. They would not watch for fresh meat in vain.

Two more good ambush spots came and went. Conan's neck wasbeginning to stiffen from trying to look in all directions at once. Hetwisted his head back and forth to loosen the muscles. A moment'sslowness in seeing or striking a foe had turned good warriors into vulture'sfodder.

Now they were entering another dry wash, with the steep right sidegouged and furrowed by flash floods since the time of Atlantis, the other

side a slope almost gentle enough for a pasture. At the very top of theleftward slope the ground leapt up in a wall of rock, with a few gaps in it.From where Conan sat his saddle, he thought a mouse might havesqueezed through those gaps, if it fasted for a week and then oiled its fur—

Dust boiled up from the foot of the wall, and in the dust Conan sawtwo-legged shapes much larger than mice. The dust rose, but the shapesturned into men, running down the slope toward the valley floor, leapingover boulders and dips in the ground with the antelope-grace of the deserttribesmen.

To Conan, this seemed a poorly laid ambush in an ill-chosen spot. Therunning men would be good archery targets the moment Conan's men hadthe shelter of the rocks to their right. But men died at the hands ofbungling foes as well as of wise ones. Conan would give the tribesmen nounnecessary advantage.

He wheeled his horse, guiding it with his knees as he raised both handsover his head. He held his sword crosswise in those hands, and the menbehind him took the signal. They in turn wheeled their horses, then swungabout in their saddles. All had bows and full quivers, all had arrowsnocked by the time their horses' heads were turned, and all shot beforethey entered the shadow of the rocks.

The range was easy for Turanian or even Afghuli bows againstman-sized targets, even when the bowmen were shooting in haste. Moretribesmen went down than arrows flew out, as some of the un-woundedrunners flung themselves down, out of fear or perhaps to succor thewounded.

This gave Conan more hope for victory or at least seeing the day out.The enemy did not seem to understand that if they had few archers, theyhad to close quickly against Conan's band or risk being too weak to winthe final grapple.

Meanwhile, Conan's men were disappearing into the rugged ground tothe right. He heard human curses and equine protests as the men urgedtheir mounts up slopes more suited for goats than horses. He also heardthe whine of more arrows flying. At least one tribesman regained hiscourage, leapt to his feet, and promptly dropped again with an arrowthrough his throat.

Then human screams joined the horses' neighings from among therocks. Conan leapt from the saddle, slapped his mare on the rump to sendher uphill, and scrambled for the top of the nearest rock. If he had to makea target of himself to see what was going on, that was part of a captain's

work.

Conan was not yet halfway up the rock when his questions wereanswered. He heard Farad shouting, "They've more in the rocks! Rally,rally, rally!" and hoped that the Turanians understood Afghuli.

Then he heard war cries from the running men in the open, sendingechoes bouncing off the rocks. No, not echoes. Living throats were blaringthose cries, the living throats of new enemies waiting among the rocks forConan's men to be driven into their hands like sheep into the wolves' jaws.

Conan supposed that he could take some consolation in the skill of thechief who would be able to boast of ending the Cimmerian's career. Hewas not sure what else the situation had to commend it.

Other, that is, than the certainty of dying with sword in hand andcomrades round about, if he didn't sit on this rock gawking like a herdboyat a country fair until the enemy found an archer who could see his handin front of his face.

"Crom!"

It was not an appeal to the cold god of Cimmeria, for he did not listen tosuch appeals. It was more in the nature of a reminder, that here aCimmerian warrior was about to die, and the manner of his death shouldbe properly noted.

The god's name echoed around the rocks, drowning out all other crieshuman and animal, and left a brief, stunned silence in its wake. In themidst of that silence, Conan gathered himself, then leapt down from therock, sword in hand.

The procession came up the path toward Captain Muhbaras, eightMaidens before Danar and eight behind. At the very rear walked a figurerobed and hooded so thoroughly that she might have been a priestesspassing through the marketplace, vowed to shield herself from profaneeyes.

Under that hood, though, gleamed the golden cat's eyes, and theflowing, supple gait would have revealed the figure's identity even withoutthe eyes.

The Lady of the Mists was coming as she had promised, to deal deathfor unlawful desire.

It would be a hard death, too. Danar was bound with thongs holding hishands behind his back and a short length of chain linking his ankles,

barely long enough to allow him a shuffling, hobbled gait. His eyes werewide open and alert, although several welts on face and neck showedwhere he'd learned the unwisdom of looking about him.

Neither drugged nor wounded, he would see his death coming and feelit for as long as the Lady wished him to—which might be hours if shewished to set an example. Muhbaras hardened his heart all over again andwished that he could briefly stop his ears and blind his eyes.

The Maidens guarding the captain drew back, to allow their sistersroom to file onto the level rock. By the time all were present, they neededto stand practically shoulder to shoulder around the rim of the platform toleave an open space in the middle.

Into that space Danar marched, as steadily as if he were reporting forroll call. Only the sheen of sweat on his bronzed face betrayed unease ofmind.

Muhbaras forced a smile. It was not much of a final gift to a good man.He wanted to cry to the mountains and the skies as well as these accursedwomen:

"See how a soldier of Khoraja dies, and learn from his death the kind ofenemies you make by this madness!"

But the mountains and the skies would not answer; any reply wouldcome from the magic of the Lady of the Mists or the spears and swords ofthe Maidens.

Conan hoped to land among the ranks of his enemies, like a boulderplunging from a cliff. That could confuse stouter warriors than thetribesmen, and confused opponents did not last long against theCimmerian.

But either the second part of the ambush had miscarried, or elseConan's men were holding their own for the moment. Neither seemedimpossible; rough ground with an enemy lurking around a corner everyfive paces served both sides equally ill. It reminded Conan of fightinghouse to house, something he had done often enough to know that hewould gladly never do it again.

It was only three paces before he faced opponents, two of them alreadyengaged with a Greencloak. The Greencloak was at a further disadvantagethrough being pinned by the leg under his dying horse, but he wasdefending himself with desperate vigor. All his opponents' attention wason him, and they had none to spare for the Cimmerian when he came

upon them.

With surprise and an edge in reach, Conan made easy prey of the firsttribesman. He fell with his skull split from crown to the bridge of his nose,brains and blood spurting over the dead horse and the fallen Greencloak.His scimitar fell with a clang, in easy reach of the Greencloak, whosnatched it up.

For a moment more blades were in action than there was space for theirwielding. The Greencloak slashed wildly at his opponent with the scimitarin one hand and his own tulwar in the other. The tribesman tried to parryConan's broadsword with his own scimitar, while at the same timedrawing a dagger for use on the Greencloak.

The clanging as wildly swinging steel collided was worthy of ablacksmith shop. The Greencloak only nicked the tribesman's knee, butthe collision of tribal scimitar and Cimmerian broadsword halted bothstrokes. It also broke the tribesman's grip on his weapon.

It clattered on the rocks, and the tribesman had only time to fling hisdagger before Conan closed the distance. Nothing met the broadsword'ssecond swing, until it opened the tribesman's throat and windpipe, nearlytaking his head from his shoulders. More blood flowed over the dead horseas the second tribesman collapsed on top of the first.

Conan did not notice where the flung dagger had gone until theGreencloak cried out at the Cimmerian's grip on his shoulder. Then Conansaw the dagger thrust three fingers into the man's left shoulder. Heplucked it out, wiped it on his breeches, thrust it into his belt, andfinished dragging the Greencloak out from under the horse.

"Best pack that with something," Conan said, pointing at the bleedingshoulder. "Or can you fight left-handed?"

The man nodded.

"Better a right-handed fighter than a left-handed corpse," Conan said."Now stay close by me, while we find our comrades."

"Ah—eh—if they're dead—?"

"If they were dead," Conan growled, "we wouldn't be hearing anyfighting upslope. If they are dead, they may have killed enough foes to letus escape.

And if you don't follow me up the hill, the folk from across the valley willsurely kill you if I don't do it first."

He did not quite prod the Greencloak in the small of the back with the

point of his broadsword. He did not need to. The soldier lunged up theslope as if he were an unwounded runner on level ground, shouting themotto of the Greencloaks as he went.

"Our blood is our honor!"

The Lady of the Mists stepped into the center of the circle. Muhbarasnoted that she was carrying a long staff, taller than she was, in the form ofa serpent—the giant asp of the jungles east of Vendhya, to be precise. Ithad one ruby eye and one emerald eye, and down its length flowed, insteadof scales, those unnameable runes that the captain had seen far too oftensince he came to the Valley of the Mists.

The Lady stopped just behind Danar, and thrust the staff down to therock three times. Each time the rock boomed under the blow like a giant'sdrum. Muhbaras was uneasily conscious of how ancient the stonework ofthis balcony was, and how far it jutted out over a drop clear to the bottomof the valley. He even thought he saw the Maidens betray some unease, bythe lift of a shoulder or the flicker of an eye, but for the most part theywere doing their usual imitation of statues.

The Lady struck a fourth time—and this time no drum-thunder rolledout across the Valley. In silence the staff seemed to sink into the rock andstand there as if it had grown there. It did not so much asquiver—although Muhbaras thought that he saw a glow in the ruby eye,and perhaps also in the emerald one.

The Lady made a commanding gesture with her left hand, and eightMaidens marched forward from their places around the platform, untilthey made a tight circle around Danar and the staff. One unlocked thechains from his ankles.

Now an equally commanding gesture of the Lady's right hand set theMaidens to lifting Danar bodily, as if he were a barrel of wine or a sheep'scarcass. For a moment Muhbaras thought that Danar's fate was to beimpalement, and wondered at the Lady's lack of imagination if she couldcontrive no worse end for him.

Then the captain saw that they were lifting Danar so that the staffwould rise up between his back and his bound hands. He would be ashelpless as if he had actually been bound to it, and there would be no needto unbind his hands at any point.

Danar rose, then descended until only the top of his head was visibleamong the gleaming hair of the Maidens. For a long moment that, too,

disappeared— then in the next moment Maidens were flung in alldirections like sheep charged by a lion.

Danar burst out of the circle of Maidens with both hands free. Hisbonds dangled from his wrists, and in his right hand was a small dagger.He leapt over a Maiden who had gone sprawling and dashed for the edgeof the platform, where a gap showed between two other Maidens.

"Your pardon, ladies," Danar said, as the women raised spears andmoved to close the gap. At least that was what it sounded like toMuhbaras.

What he did know to his dying day was that Danar spoke to theMaidens preparing to kill him as courteously as he might have to ahighborn woman with her daughter who found themselves in the path ofhis war chariot.

The tone had its effect. Or perhaps it was the dagger in Danar's hand.He feinted with it at the right-hand maiden, lashed out at her sister withthe end of the thongs on his left wrist, and made the gap anew.

It was more than wide enough to let him reach the edge of the platformand, without breaking stride, leap into space.

Conan followed the Greencloak up the slope at a less frantic pace. Onceagain he was trying to look in every direction at once, for all that in somedirections his eyes met solid rock just beyond the end of his nose.

He still saw too many men coming across the valley, and fewer but stilluncomfortably many atop the ridge on this side. He and his comradeswere boxed in as thoroughly as if they had been in a dungeon, and stonewalls would have been only a trifle harder to break through than such ahorde of tribesmen.

Then he noticed that the battle din from up the slope was dying away,faster than it should. Either his men had been overrun, or they had beatenoff at least one attack, which ought to be impossible—

His eagerness to solve the mystery nearly ended Conan's life. He camearound a rock into full view of archers higher up, and they promptly put adozen arrows through the space where he had been standing. Nothing buta hillman's speed held his wounds to scratches. That same preternaturalspeed let him scoop up a handful of usable arrows before he leapt again.

This time he landed on something alive and foul-smelling, which sworeAfghuli oaths fit to crack rocks or cause landslides.

"Farad, I heard you shouting. How fare we?"

Farad coughed so long and loud that Conan suspected sarcasm. "Themen fare well, save for one dead and another fallen under his horse—or isthat the one who dashed past me as if his breeches were aflame?"

"The same. I had some trouble bringing him up. Now that you've yourbreath back and your ribs intact, I repeat my question."

"We've beaten off one attack, on our right." Farad waved an arm in thatgeneral direction. "Nobody came down against our left, for which the godsbe praised as that would have been the end of us."

"Are their men not yet in position on our left?" If so, then Conan's menhad received only a stay of execution, not a full pardon.

"Oh, they hold the heights all across our front, Conan. But they've nomanhood, the ones on our left. They hardly put a head up; when they do,they seldom shoot; and when they shoot, it's not to hit. If those weaklingshad all the arrows in the world—"

Conan held up a hand. Battle-honed instincts made him see possibilitiesin this situation that had escaped Farad. It would be best not to getanyone's hopes up, however.

"My thanks. While there's a lull, I'm going up to scout on the left."

Had Danar's leap been a spell to turn all who saw it into stone, therecould not have been more silence or less movement on the balcony.Muhbaras alone contained himself out of fear. The rest seemed unable tobelieve that what their eyes had seen was really what had happened.

To suspect one's eyes of so misleading one would unsettle anyone,Muhbaras suspected. At least he had no doubts—and indeed, he wasalready composing the tribute to Danar he would send to the soldier's kin,if he had any and if Muhbaras himself lived to set pen to parchmentagain—

The Maidens ceased to be statues. So did the Lady of the Mists. Withhands raised, she advanced on the eight Maidens standing about the staff.A crimson nimbus sprang into existence around her right hand; a faintergolden light seemed to drip like water from her left hand.

The two colors cascaded down to the stone, splashed upward like water,and merged. They formed a sphere the size of a large melon, mostlycrimson, shot with gold, and throwing off sparks. The sphere began torotate—as it seemed to Muhbaras, in three different directions as once.

He would have called that impossible—except that since he came to theValley of the Mists, Muhbaras had purged that word from his lips. It couldonly make one apt to be surprised—and the Lady and her Maidens heldenough surprises for a soldier who kept his wits.

The sphere now floated upward, still spinning, with sparks of bothcolors cascading down so thickly that one could not see anyone through it.It rose higher and seemed to be moving toward the ring of Maidens.

It darted forward, until it was over the place where Danar had leapt.

Then Muhbaras clapped his hands over his ears, and before he squeezedhis eyes shut, saw others doing the same. All seemed to be hearing thescream of one being flayed alive, a scream that told all who heard that itwould go on until the end of time and perhaps beyond it until the godsthemselves brought an end to it—

He kept his feet, and so did most of the Maidens. Some of themstaggered, however, and a handful went to their knees.

Only the Lady of the Mists stood unaffected, her hands still raised, herbreasts rising and falling a trifle more than usual under the robe as if shewas breathing hard. Her eyes contrived to both glow and be utterly blankat the same time, while her lips were even paler than usual.

Then she gripped the staff with both hands, and it came free of the rockas easily as a weed from sodden ground. She tossed it with one hand andcaught it with the other, whirled it, and seemed almost ready to break intoa dance.

Dancing was the last thing Muhbaras felt like doing. His highest hopewas that his legs and stomach would not betray him until he was safelybeyond the Gate of the valley.

He had not believed that the Lady could conjure more horrors. The nextmoment proved him wrong. Danar, or at least a human figure more likehim than not, floated up from the valley. It was as though an invisiblehand had caught him before he found the merciful death he sought, andraised him to be prey to the Lady's torments.

For very surely the screams came from the human figure held there inthe air before Muhbaras's horror-struck eyes.

Nine

Conan reined in his urge to rush upslope as he would have reined in a

pair of fractious chariot horses. Haste on broken ground leads more oftento falls than to safe arrival, even for a surefooted hillman.

It also draws an enemy's attention, which Conan wished to avoid as longas possible. His comrades below lacked the numbers to force the enemy'sarchers to keep their heads down or even to spoil their shooting, if theychose to rejoin the fray.

So Conan moved with the stealth of a leopard, finding cover in cracksand hiding in pools of shadow that a watcher would have thought toosmall for a man his size. He also moved with the silence of a cobra, testingeach handhold and footrest before putting weight on it. Little dust rose tomark his passage, and only the smallest pebbles rolled silently downhill.

As he climbed, the rocks grew smaller but the ground grew otherwisemore rugged. At times the only route that offered concealment alsorequired him to call on his mountaineering skills. Fortunately these werefresh in his memory, as much of Afghulistan reared itself up into slopesthat challenged even its own goat-footed tribesfolk or even Cimmerians.

Conan finished climbing a short rock chimney with his feet against oneside and his back against another. The ground at the upper end offeredjust enough hiding places to let him stop, catch his breath, spit dust fromhis mouth (although he still did not care to have his teeth touch oneanother), and listen to the progress of the battle.

Or rather, listen for the progress of the battle, without hearing it. Bothabove and below, the enemy seemed to have sat down to wait, not evenhurling the occasional arrow or slingstone at a venture into the rockswhere Conan's band lay hidden. Conan listened for war cries and curses,but heard only coughs and sneezes, and beyond that the crack of rocksbreaking in the heat, the sigh of the wind, and distant birdcalls from highabove.

Of course, such a silence had in Conan's experience also meant theenemy slipping into his comrades' position and cutting their throats. Buthe did not believe that the Turanian had yet been born who could do thatto one Afghuli tribesman, let alone half a dozen—unless he was of Afghuliblood himself…

A sound from above cut short the Cimmerian's brief speculations. Itwas the sound of a man crawling, trying to be silent but having rather lessthan complete success at it.

Then other sounds joined the first one. Somebody was calling out,trying to be heard close by but not at any great distance. The call abruptlycut off, and Conan heard what sounded remarkably like a struggle.

Meanwhile, the crawling man was drawing closer. Conan judged that theman would be close enough to spit on if he continued downhill for as longas it might take to empty a mug of good ale.

Then from above someone cried out in rage, someone else in agony.Neither seemed concerned about being overheard at a distance; indeedboth shouted loud enough to be heard in Aghrapur. A frantic scrabblingtold of the crawling man increasing his pace.

Then a bearded, wild-eyed head peered over a rock just beyond Conan'sreach. Instantly shouts rose from all around the rim, and the Cimmerianheard the whistle of arrows. Whether this man was friend or foe, Conanjudged that he must know something that it would be well to learn.Turned into a pincushion by archers, he would die without speaking.

Conan lunged out of cover and grabbed a handful of greasy black hairwith one hand, the neck of a patched and weather-faded robe with theother. Then he heaved backward. The man flew over the Cimmerian'shead, screaming in panic as he saw himself about to plunge headfirstdown the chimney.

He did not do so, because Conan twisted with the agility of an eel,shifting his grip as he did so. His hands closed around the man's ankles.But he was off balance for a moment—the moment in which all the weightof the man came on his wrists.

Conan dug in his feet, but an arrow creased the back of his knees. Thesudden sting made him start, and that broke the grip of his toes. At thesame moment the man squalled as if he were being impaled, which drewmore arrows, and struggled wildly.

The Cimmerian felt himself sliding. Both his own honor and the need tokeep the prisoner alive barred him from just letting go. Instead he tried toturn the slide into a leap, but he had no time. He was still turning, tryingto get his feet under him to land softly, when he slid over the edge of thechimney and plunged down.

The Lady of the Mists let out a screech like a mating wildcat. Thesphere of fire instantly swelled to three times its previous size and leapedtoward Danar's suspended form.

Colors that Muhbaras would not have believed possible in Hell blazed inthe Lady's eyes. They were mirrored in the sphere. It lost its sphericalshape and licked out now more like the tongue of an immense serpent.

Its flame-shot core drove between two Maidens, so close that its fringes

touched them. Each fell backward as if kicked by a horse, sprawling on thestone with clatters of armor. Some of their comrades hesitated, but otherssprang forward to drag them to safety.

Muhbaras gave scant attention to what was happening on the platform.Instead he stared at what was happening to Danar. He hung in midair likea soap bubble as a web of fire wove itself around him, forming nowobscene figures, now gouts of flame in sap-phire and emerald hues, atonce dazzling and unwholesome.

Each time the Lady of the Mists raised her hands, the web grew tighter.Each time Muhbaras caught a glimpse of Danar, he bore more signs oftorment. His mouth was open in a soundless scream and his back archeduntil his spine had to be ready to snap.

Then the fire closed around what had been a living man, but his beinggone from sight did not mean the end of the torment. Instead the Ladyallowed Danar's scream out of the fire—and Muhbaras had never heard aviler sound in all his years of warfare.

Then Muhbaras shut his ears and strode forward with his sword in onehand and his dagger in the other. Before anyone, Lady or Maiden, couldmove spell or steel to halt him, he tossed the dagger, caught it by thepoint, then flung it into the sphere of fire.

It was long range for anyone who had not learned the art of thethrowing knife at ten and won prizes in the bazaar at twelve (and beenbeaten by his father for dealing with such lowborn folk). Also, Muhbarashad spent little time at practice of late.

His hand and eye still marched together. The dagger vanished into thefire. As it did, Muhbaras saw the Lady turn toward him—and raised hissword until its point thrust into the tongue of fire streaming from theLady.

Mitra be my witness and guard my men, I cannot do otherwise.

Good fortune was with the Cimmerian and his prisoner in their fall.They landed on sand, with the prisoner uppermost, and Conan's ribs weresheathed in iron-hard muscle. He also had skill in jumping and falling thata carnival tumbler might have envied.

The fall still knocked the breath out of him, and he was slow to rise.Fortunately his captive was as breathless from fear as the Cimmerian wasfrom the fall. The man only attempted his escape after Conan was fit toprevent it, with a large hand clamped firmly around the handiest ankle.

The man cursed and opened his mouth to scream, then appeared to seeConan clearly for the first time. His mouth stayed open, until he croakedwords that sounded like:

"You—no—Girumgi man?"

The tongue was Turanian, but such a thick dialect that Conan was notsure what was being said.

"I am not Girumgi," Conan said, in Turanian, as if he were speaking toa child. "I mean you no harm, nor do any of my friends. Come with me."

The words seemed to escape the man's understanding, but the tone andthe gestures carried enough meaning. Also, the man was short and leaneven for a desert tribesman. The Cimmerian could have carried a man ofthat size under each arm, and the man seemed to prefer using his own feetto such a fate.

They made a good pace back to shelter. The enemy above seemed to bewholly lost in their shouting contest. Conan prefered to rejoin hiscomrades before the shouting turned back to shooting. As for the menbelow, the ground was against them, but numbers were for them. Theirnot coming on was another mystery, and two mysteries on the samebattlefield were two more than the Cimmerian enjoyed facing.

Battles were confusing enough when everybody did what he wassupposed to. When he did not, only a god could see some pattern in thechaos of a battle.

If he had owed nothing to comrades, the Cimmerian would have beenusing the enemy's confusion to show them all a clean pair of heels. Whenothers' lives hung on your continued presence, however—

Farad was the first to greet Conan, and motioned quickly to a low cavewhose mouth had been dug free while Conan was garnering the prisoner.It was too shallow to be much of a last refuge, and held no water—not thatthe battle was likely to exhaust even the single water bag apiece Conan'sband was carrying.

"No attacks?" the Cimmerian said.

Farad looked at the sky. "Would we be here if there had been? And whois this aged boy?"

Again the man understood Farad's tone rather than his Afghuli words,and drew a dagger. Conan promptly slapped it out of his hand, thenretrieved it and thrust it into his own belt.

"You are lucky to be alive," he said. "I will keep this knife until you have

told us what is happening uphill. Why do you fear the Girumgi?"

The man began babbling a hasty explanation, of which Conanunderstood possibly two words out of three. He found more sense in theman's tale when he remembered that the Girumgi were one of the morepowerful of the desert tribes.

Before the man had finished his explanation, Conan heard the shoutingatop the hill die away. As it did, he thought he also heard Turanian warhorns, but so far away that it was impossible to tell whether it was a trickof the desert wind moaning around the rocks.

Conan signaled with his hand to Farad: Make ready for an attack .Farad nodded and undid his belt, to bind the prisoner's hands. The man'seyes rolled up until only the whites showed.

Conan glared. "He will cut your throat if you do not submit, and I willnot stop him."

"No—I fight—I friend you—I fight Girumgi—" he said, with franticgestures uphill and toward the right.

That told Conan that the Girumgi had been pressing the attack morevigorously, but not enough else to dispel the mystery. He nodded to Farad,who looped the thong around the man's wrists and started to pull it tight.

Then demons seemed to break loose on the hill above. Fifty men at leastwere screaming, in defiance, terror, or mortal agony. Above the screamingrose unmistakable Turanian war horns, this time not far away at all. Evenbetter, some of the war cries were also Turanian.

Conan looked at the prisoner, who had fainted. Then he looked atFarad, who returned a "Do you take me for an oracle?" expression.

The Cimmerian shifted to the nearest position that might allow him tosee what was going on uphill, or tell where he could send an arrow withoutskewering a friend!

Muhbaras did not expect another life in another world, for he hadserved too many bad masters for far too long. He also did not expectanyone to speak well of the manner of his death, or compose about it apoem that would be sung in the halls of Khorajan nobles for centuries oreven moons to come. He did expect that his death would make amends toDanar's spirit, if it did not end his torment.

What Muhbaras did not know about sorcery and witchcraft would fillseveral long and closely written scrolls. He did know, however, that the

presence of cold iron, such as a sword blade, could hinder many spells.

All this whirled through Muhbaras's thoughts in the heartbeat betweenhis lifting the sword and its entering the fire. Then he staggered backwardas the tongue of fire jerked upward, snatching the sword from his hand soviolently that the shagreen grip left his palm bloody.

Like a mortally stricken serpent, the tongue of fire writhed wildly in theair. The Lady of the Mists braced her legs and clutched at her end of it likea drowning man clutching at a rope. Muhbaras heard her chanting, thenscreaming, loud enough to be heard over Danar's agony, but was toosurprised at still being alive to look closely at the Lady's face.

Too surprised, and also too fearful that if she took serious notice of him,his death would be next and in a form that made Danar's look mild. Hehad not fallen dead the moment his sword pierced the fire. He judged thisto mean that something far worse awaited him.

Then Danar's cry ended. The fire around him vanished, and only grayash remained, drifting down into the valley on the evening breeze, pastlife, past pain, past fear.

The Lady chanted on, and the tongue of fire now lashed about like thetail of an immense cat. Everyone gave it ample room, except the Lady whocommanded it and Muhbaras. He stood as if his feet had turned to stoneand joined with the balcony. Indeed, he had to look down to be sure thatthis had not happened.

He was alive, but knew this could not last long. Since he was a deadman who yet stood, he would not fling aside the dignity of this lastmoment by seeking to run.

Perhaps his death would not pass unnoticed—at least among theMaidens. Some of them had the souls of women rather than witches.Danar had proved that. They might not be such ready tools for their madmistress with the example of Muhbaras's death in front of them.

Suddenly the tongue of fire shrank from the height of a tree to theheight of a man in a single instant. Then it shrank further, into a sphereno larger than an apple, and fell to the stone. As it struck, it vanished—butsmoke rose where it struck, and Muhbaras saw stone bubble and fume asit ran liquid.

They stood, sorceress and mercenary, staring at one another across apatch of cooling lava no wider than a footstool but seemingly as wide asthe valley itself for all that either could cross it. The silence around themseemed as solid as bronze or stone, encasing their limbs so firmly that the

mere thought of movement seemed futile.

Only the rise and fall of the Lady's breasts told Muhbaras that she yetlived. He could not have told why he knew that he lived, yet he did—and asthe moments flowed one into another, he began to wonder if he might goon living.

Do not hope. Death that snatches away hope is the harshest.

That was an old lesson, in books any boy born to be a soldier knewalmost as soon as he could mount a horse. Muhbaras clung to it, but healso clung to the thought that he had done something the Lady of theMists could not have expected, and did not know what to make of it.

As long as she doubted, Muhbaras might live.

It did not occur to him to try to escape while the Lady stood bemusedand doubting, perhaps for the first time since she bent the valley to herwill. Had he been able to form the reason for this completely, it wouldhave been that any movement by him would break this fragile truce, andmake the Lady lash out wildly.

His own death was certain, a death he had faced to end Danar'storment. He would not bring death to the Maidens if he could contriveotherwise.

A sound broke the silence—the clang of steel on stone. Muhbaras stilldid not move. He did not need to. Without so much as moving his eyes, hesaw his sword lying on the stone between him and the Lady.

He had expected the sword to be a blackened, twisted relic of itself.Instead it gleamed as if the finest armorer in the world had lavished entiredays bringing out the luster in the steel. Jewels winked in the hilt whereonly a few disks of silver had shone before—but they did not make theweapon useless.

"Take it up," the Lady said. At least that was what Muhbaras thoughthe heard, although he could not have sworn the words were not comingfrom the air. He did know, however, that it would be ill done to make theLady repeat herself.

He squatted, and without taking his eyes from the Lady's face, lifted hissword. It felt lighter than before, yet as well balanced as ever.

One heard about such swords, in old tales of heroes who had died whenthe waves still rolled over the fresh grave of Atlantis. One did not imagineseeing one's own blade transformed into such a weapon.

"Cut off a lock of your hair with your blade, honored captain," the Lady

said. This time Muhbaras knew that it was she who spoke. He also knewthat disobeying was impossible. Never mind the possibleconsequences—disobeying was a thought that did not enter his mind.

He had cut a lock of hair, the edge of his sword shearing through iteffortlessly, when he remembered another bit of witch lore.

Give a witch anything of yours, particularly part of your body, andshe can conjure potent spells against you, or at least to serve herself.

Muhbaras allowed this thought to linger in his mind. Then hedeliberately thought of refusing.

Instead of blasting him to ashes on the spot, the Lady of the Mistssmiled. It was the smile of one to whose face such an expression is newlycome and not altogether welcome. It seemed as if she was trying to putherself as well as him at ease.

This seemed improbable to the last degree. Had the Lady any vestige ofconscience, she would not have done as she had to Danar. If she feltremorse, it was too late for a good soldier.

But her face was shaping itself into a smile, and after a moment,Muhbaras returned it. After another moment he stepped forward, but hedid not hold out the lock of hair, nor put from his mind the thought ofrefusing it.

"You have nothing to fear from the gift of your substance, honoredcaptain," the Lady said. She looked him up and down with those goldencat's eyes. Muhbaras could not escape the thought that here was a womanconsidering him as a man. There had been—not tenderness—but whatmight be called warmth in her eyes.

That thought also provoked no death-dealing spells.

Muhbaras took another step forward, and this time the Lady alsomoved. Cool fingers touched his, reaching as high as his wrist, brieflygripping it, then withdrawing with the lock of hair clasped betweenthumb and forefinger.

As the Lady of the Mists withdrew her hand, Muhbaras noted that herfingernails were a muted shade of the same gold as her eyes.

Then he noticed nothing more, until he found himself standing amid arising wind, with light almost gone from the sky and eight Maidensstanding around him in a circle.

It did not surprise him that the Maidens now looked like impatientwomen rather than daughters of a warrior goddess. It did not even

surprise him that some of them were shivering noticeably in theonrushing chill of the evening.

His voice came out strongly when he spoke, what he hoped would be thelast surprise of the evening.

"All of you need not come, unless our Lady commands it. I only needguides to the mouth of the valley."

"Our Lady commands all," one of the Maidens said, in a voice almost asflat as before.

It seemed they had not unbent enough to follow his suggestions ratherthan their Lady's command.

Conan had not found a good shooting spot when the primal chaosseemed to descend on the hillside. Dust rose like a young sandstorm, andout of the brown cloud warriors rolled, fell, leaped, and ran.

In spite of the dust, Conan could tell that some were tribal warriors—nodoubt the Girumgi, although he did not remember the pattern of theirheaddress. The rest were Turanian Greencloaks. Clearly Khezal's rovingband had scented trouble in time to ride to Conan's rescue.

The arrival of friends did not, however, ensure Conan's victory or evenhis survival. Desperate tribesmen were swarming downhill, and theyoutnumbered the Cimmerian's band two or three to one. Also, thetribesmen could shoot both uphill and down with small risk of strikingfriends. The Turanians both above and below were not so fortunate.

Best hold with steel , Conan thought, then shouted that aloud.

One Afghuli archer protested; Farad made to snatch his bow and lookedready to break it. The archer slung his bow and drew a long knife, whichto Conan looked much the best weapon for close-quarters work.

Then the Girumgi came down upon them. Conan spared one glance tothe left flank, where nobody seemed to be either shouting or shooting now.Then his world shrank to the rocks on either side and the dust-caked,wild-eyed opponent in front of him.

He swung hard from the right at one tribesman's rib cage and caughtthe man's left arm as it swung down. The man's forearm and tulwar fell tothe ground; he howled and tried to push his spouting stump in theCimmerian's face. Conan's blade ended that dying effort, shearing deepinto the man's torso and reaching his heart.

He fell in a narrow passage between two rocks, partly blocking it. Conan

half-turned, snatched up a rock, and flung it left-handed at the next manto appear in the passage. It turned his face to bloody jam as he stumbledforward on the point of Conan's newly drawn dagger and fell atop hiscomrade.

An arrow whssshed close to the Cimmerian's ear, from the right. Hefaced that way, snatching up another rock and leaping forward as well.The tribesman who'd shot was too close for a throw, so close he ought notto have been able to miss. But panic or even haste will make the bestwarrior hardly more than a child—certainly much less than a Conan.

The Cimmerian struck the archer with his stone-weighted left hand,while thrusting over the man's shoulder with his sword. The first man'shead snapped back hard enough to break his neck, and he crashed intothe man behind at the same moment Conan's steel entered the secondone's throat. Again two tribesmen fell, almost atop one another.

But Conan now stood in an open space, withmight hide archers and two entrances that mighthim. He gave ground, drifting to the left. Alongnarrow passage with both flanks secure and onlycome at him.

rocks all around thatlet tribesmen outflankthat way lay a singleroom for one man to

Conan had to kill but one tribesman on the way to that narrow passage.From the shouting and screaming to either side of him, not to say theclang of steel, he judged his comrades were having better fortune.

He hoped so. They had to beat down the fleeing tribesmen before theircomrades below realized what was going on. If they came up to help, theycould still catch Conan's men between two fires.

It was the fleeing tribesmen who were overwhelmed in the next fewmoments. Each of Conan's men fought like two, and although there weremore tribesmen than the Cimmerian had reckoned, in the end that madeno difference.

Conan had just found a moment to catch his breath and roughly cleanhis blades when more shouting broke out below. Mingled with the humancries were the frightened neighs and agonized death-screams of horses.

Again, some of those war cries were Turanian.

Conan had just time to think that this battle was growing mysterieswhen more fleeing tribesmen came in sight. These appeared to come fromthe valley below, and they seemed as eager to climb the hill as theircomrades had been to descend.

Like their comrades, they outnumbered Conan's band even had it been

at full strength. As Conan had seen at least one Afghuli lying dead orgravely hurt, that strength had to be less full than a captain could wish.

"Crom!" the Cimmerian swore. "These tribal lice won't let a man evenstop to clean his sword."

Then he strode forward to strike the new foes, but leaped backward asarrows hailed about him, and one tore at his left forearm. The woundwould slow him by nightfall, but the battle would not last that long, and hehad fought all day with half a dozen such wounds.

The arrow did the Cimmerian no great hurt. What nearly ended hiscareer was a dying Girumgi who had been lying directly behind theCimmerian. As Conan retreated, he grabbed Conan's ankles and jerked.Most men might as well have tried to shift the Kezankian Mountains, butthe tribesman was a large man with the strength of the dying, and hecaught Conan off balance.

Conan toppled, lashing out as he did. His fist grazed the man's jaw, buthis head did not graze a protruding rock. A skull less thick than theCimmerian's would have cracked open. Even the Cimmerian sawflame-shot darkness—and then the dying Girumgi rolling on top of him,dagger thrusting for his throat.

It never reached its goal. Suddenly a slight figure stood behind thetribesman, and a gold-hilted sword descended like the wrath of Crom. Thetribesman's skull split apart, and his dagger thudded harmlessly onConan's chest.

By now the Cimmerian could focus his eyes well enough to recognize theswordsman.

"Khezal. By Erlik's helm, you are timely come!"

"You must be seriously hurt, my friend. Such courtly speech from yougoes against nature."

"Would you like me to rise up and strangle you to prove otherwise?"

"Hardly. I might ask for some of those jewels—"

"From my share, perhaps. If you take any from the Afghulis' portion, Iwill drop you headfirst down a dry well and then bury you in camel dung!"

Khezal pretended to cringe, then turned his head to listen to a distantsound beyond the reach of Conan's ears. (They were still ringing, and hisstomach was grateful for being nearly empty.)

"That's the sergeant who was besieging your runaway Afghulis," Khezalsaid.

"What is he doing here?"

"When I learn, you will be the first to know. But he just told me that heand his men have driven off the horses of the tribesmen in the valley, andare pursuing the fugitives on foot."

"Better them than me," Conan said. He tried to sit up, and the groundswayed only moderately.

"Ho, a litter for Captain Conan!" Khezal shouted.

"I've had worse hurts falling out of my cradle," the Cimmeriangrumbled.

"That was not so far to fall as it will be now with you full-grown," Khezalsaid. He pushed the Cimmerian back down. The fact that the Turaniancould do it and that Conan did not care to resist proved to Conan thatperhaps he should leave the rest of the battle in Khezal's hands.

It was, after all, thoroughly won, even if it would be a while before heknew exactly how, What would take longer to discover, he feared, waswhether this was the last battle of the quest into the Kezankian

Mountains—or, as he very much suspected, only the first of many.

That was too sobering a thought for a man with an aching head, soConan found a comfortable position and waited for the litter.

Captain Muhbaras rode down the path from the gate to the Valleytoward his quarters. He normally walked, the path being rather too steepfor horses, and a warrior's dignity prohibited an ass.

Tonight, however, he would lose even more dignity by falling on his noseand perhaps rolling down the hill than he would be riding an ass. His legshad not felt so weak since the first time he did a dawn-to-sunset marchwith a full pack.

The Lady of the Mists had been appraising him as a man. This he nowcould no longer doubt. She had also been doing it in full view of Maidenswho might be neither loyal nor discreet. Thus whatever was in the Lady'sthoughts might already be no secret.

Having a sorceress contemplating one in such a manner could hardlyend happily, even if one had no thought for one's personal honor. The taleswere many and various about the fate of a witch's lover, but none of themheld much hope of avoiding a harsh fate.

However, offending the Lady of the Mists held out no hope of safety forMuhbaras's men. He had risked them to save his honor once, and by a

miracle or the whims of a sorceress who was yet a woman, he and theyalike had escaped. This good fortune would not come a second time.

Muhbaras bore that thought as one might bear a wounded comrade atthe end of a long day's battle, as he rode down the trail into shadows littlerelieved by the lanterns at the door of his quarters.

"So the Girumgi are at least toying with rebellion?" Conan asked.

"So it would seem," Khezal replied.

"One mystery solved," Conan grunted, and poured more wine into hiscup.

"Are you sure—?" Khezal began.

"I am sure you did not learn war from Khadjar and your father to serveas my nurse," the Cimmerian growled. "My head barely aches. I see onlywhat is held up in front of me. I have not spewed or fallen asleep."

"Which proves that Cimmerian heads really are harder than stone,"Farad put in.

Conan threw up his hands in mock disgust. "Since my head is fit to holdthoughts, shall we think what to do next?"

The prisoner Conan had taken was from the Stone Clan of the Ekinari.The son of the chief of the Ekinari was sworn blood-brother to the chief ofthe Girumgi. This explained why Ekinari rode with Girumgi, but notaltogether why they had not fought side by side.

"Even had you known the tribal speech, you could not have got fromthat man answers he did not know himself," Khezal went on. "Nor did ithelp matters that the rest of the Stone Clan or whoever were his comradesran off as it fifty demons were at their heels."

"Demons, or perhaps all the surviving Girumgi," Farad said.

"Few enough of those, by Mitra's favor," Khezal said.

Being overconfident had brought better captains than Khezal to lonelygraves, but Conan thought in this case the Turanian had the right of it. Itseemed that Khezal was not the only one to march to the sound of Oman'sbattle.

The Greencloaks had been industriously besieging the fugitive Afghuliswhen the battle sounds rose. Convinced that the battle had to involveConan coming to rescue them, the leader of the Afghulis called for a parleyand offered truce terms.

The Afghulis would release all their hostages without ransom andreturn their weapons. In return, the Greencloaks would swear not to harmthe Afghulis until they had fought and won against the common foe whowas surely not far away.

The Greencloaks accepted this offer, and the truce was sworn to lastuntil both sides were released from it by their respective captains. Itseemed that the Greencloaks were as sure of Khezal's coming as theAfghulis were of Conan's, and also wished to join in battle under theirbeloved captain.

So Afghuli and Turanian rode out together, and made havoc in the rearof the tribesmen in the valley. They had a good plunder of weapons,horses, and baggage, and the bodies of some fifty tribesmen were feedingthe vultures. The new allies had lost no more than seven, and Conan couldsee the stone cairn where they lay in the light of a dung fire.

Khezal was still a man to ride with, more so than ever now that thewisdom of years and the experience of many battles had joined his nativewits. It was as well to have such a comrade on a quest, particularly onethat showed every sign of sprouting new mysteries as fast as the old oneswere answered.

Conan had sworn to ride north to aid Khezal in the KezankianMountains, and he would not break that oath if all the tribes of the desertand all their intriguing chiefs and chiefs' sons stood in his path. But hewould not expect to come back alive, either.

Ten

They were four days' ride north of the battle against the Girumgi. TheKezankian Mountains were peering over the northern horizon, with theeternal snowcaps of the higher peaks glinting pink at dawn and sunset.The breeze told of a world beyond the desert, at which Conan and theAfghulis rejoiced.

Khezal was less joyful, and thought he had cause, for all theCimmerian's rough jests.

"Here we are, not far from the caravan routes," Conan said. "Yet youcomplain. There are wells for water, trees for shade, and even refuges forany of our men who fall ill or are taken by the sun. What do youwant—dragons to fly us to the Kezankians in a trice?"

"I would rather bind them to seek out the mysteries in the mountains

and bring us back word of what they learn," Khezal replied.

"Not slay the wizards outright?"

"I'd not wager a dragon's power against wizards fit to do the half ofwhat the tales say has happened," Khezal said, with a shrug. "Besides, I'mof your mind about dealing with spellcasters. Don't play their games, butclose and feed them an arm's length of steel."

Conan nodded his approval. "Then what ails you, my friend?"

"Riding into yet another mystery is what ails me, and don't pretend youare any the less uneasy in your mind about that. Also, we have slain twoscore Girumgi, and if they are not in rebellion against the king, they willsurely call themselves at blood-feud with us."

"Hah. There will be few Girumgi left to rebel if they stand to face us.Moreover, as long as we face that battle, your folk and mine will be readierto forget that they ever so much as exchanged harsh looks."

Khezal looked back at the Afghuli riding in a compact knot behindConan. Certainly some Turanians rode easily beside them, chatting as ifthey'd been comrades for years. Other Greencloaks, however, kept theirdistance and wore baleful looks. The Afghulis, in turn, kept a sharplookout and their sword hands free.

"Speak for your own men, as no doubt you can," Khezal said. "I am sureof most of mine, but there is always one with a heritage of blood-feud orgrief for a lost comrade who can ruin the best-planned discipline. I'llguard your back, Conan, but I can hardly promise that will be enough."

"You're a warrior, not a god," Conan said, slapping Khezal on theshoulder nearly hard enough to tumble the slight Turanian from thesaddle. Khezal mock-glared, then turned his eyes forward once more.

"We'd best start looking for a campsite near water," he said, after amoment. "In the middle of the camp, would be my choice."

"How so?"

"See that haze on the horizon?" Conan followed the other's pointingfinger and nodded. The horizon did indeed seem blurred, as might be afteran evening's drinking.

Except that no one among the riders had touched wine for longer thanit was pleasant to remember.

"Sandstorm?"

"I see you have not forgotten everything you learned in the Turanianservice."

"No, although one of the things I did forget was your tongue. Some dayYezdigerd may have it out by the roots."

"And you'll stand drinks for the executioner, of course?" The brittlenessin Khezal's voice told Conan more than he cared to know about the uneasysituation honest men could face under the ruthless young king.

"I'll wring his neck and snatch you to life and freedom," the Cimmerianreplied. "But I won't expect thanks for it."

"You know me well," Khezal said. "And now, if you know this desert, letus seek that campsite. At this time of year it's death to ride in a sandstormand no small risk even to camp in one away from water. They can blow fordays at a time."

The wind moaned steadily outside Muhbaras's quarters, occasionallyrising to a shriek. He shivered, not so much at the wind's cry but at theman sitting across the room from him.

Through the smoke from the bronze brazier Ermik's face looked evenmore complacent and self-satisfied than usual. It was hard to believe, butall the man's time in the mountains had not cost him any flesh. Muhbaraswondered how much money he had spent in bribes squeezing banquetsfrom the rocks, or perhaps how many pack animals he had killed bringingsupplies from more civilized lands or even from Khoraja itself.

The spy had come to speak of a rumor abroad in the valley. After threecups of Muhbaras's wine, he had yet to put it into plain words.

Muhbaras hardened his voice. "I ask you for the last time. Put a nameto the rumor or hold your piece."

"And what will you do if I do neither?" Ermik taunted.

"Do you wish to test me to the point of learning?" Muhbaras said. Hisvoice was low, and to his own ears, that of a man dangerously near the endof his patience.

Ermik shrugged. "I have as many friends as before, and you have asfew," he said. "What I speak of concerns how we may both have morefriends here."

"We will have few friends and many enemies if you have been roamingwhere our men are not allowed," Muhbaras said wearily. "That alsoremains as true as it was before."

Ermik shrugged. "I doubt that your fears are wise counselors—"

"Either do not call me a coward or be prepared to lose your tongue,"

Muhbaras snapped.

This time Ermik did seem to recognize danger, at least when it took theform of a man within a heartbeat of drawing steel. He bowed his head, ina gesture at once graceful and contemptuous.

"I beg your pardon. I do not call you coward. Do you not call me fool,unless I give more proof of it than I think I have so far."

Ermik drew in breath.

"The Maidens say that the Lady of the Mists desires you, as a womandoes a man. They did not say how they knew this, as this no doubt is partof the mysteries of the Valley of the Mist and its Lady. But the Maiden whotold me swore such oaths by gods I knew, as well as by those I knew not,that I do not doubt she spoke the truth as far as she apprehended it."

That was unusual care in choosing words for Ermik, but surprise didnot make Muhbaras less alert. He folded his hands across onesilk-trousered knee. (Actually he folded the hands across the homespunknee patch on the silk. The trousers and several other silk garments were agift from his sister, who had died in childbirth two years ago. Hard wearon campaign and in the mountains was rapidly reducing them to a statein which Muhbaras would hardly care to be buried in them, for all hisaffection for his sister's memory.)

"So we face a sorceress who has begun to think with her loins, as domany common women. Many common women also command their loins,or at least do not roam about like starving she-lions in search of a man toserve them."

"Many do, the more fools they when there are any number of willingmen," Ermik said. "But I do not think the Lady of the Mists is one ofthem."

If the truth be known, neither do I . Red-hot pincers and boiling oilcould not have drawn from the captain a description of the Lady's face, forErmik's delectation. Of course, if the Maidens were women enough torecognize desire, the spy might not need such a description, either…

"Why me?" Even to his own ears, Muhbaras's words sounded pathetic.

Ermik laughed outright. "Why not you? I have not a woman's eye forjudging a man, but no doubt the Lady sees in you what she needs."

"Yes, but why me, if her need is for a man ?"

"Who can know the truth of a woman's will? Of course, you may beright. If she does not care greatly as to which man comes forward, I

might—"

"No!"

"Jealous?"

This time Muhbaras actually rose from his stool, although he stoppedshort of drawing his sword. He sat down, shaking his head, while Ermikhad at least had the decency not to laugh again.

"The whole idea of bedding the Lady is near-kin to madness," Muhbarassaid, when he knew he could command his voice. "One does not knowwhat will please Her Magicalness, nor what will displease her, nor whatshe will do to the man who displeases her.

"Also, she is not being wise in regard to her Maidens. You would notknow how this seems, to one who has commanded soldiers in battle."

"You see the Lady as a captain over her Maiden soldiers?"

"Yes, and fighting a war to bring her magic to victory."

"That may be so," Ermik said. Without asking Muhbaras's leave, hewent over to the wine jug resting in a stone crock half-filled with coldwater. The captain noticed that the spy's hands were not entirely steady ashe poured himself another cup, still less so when he drank it off in onegulp.

"It is so," Muhbaras said. "And one rule which wise captains obey isnever to take pleasures that you forbid your men. Do you think Khorajawill profit from a mutiny among the Maidens that leads to war in thevalley and the ruin of all our plans to bedevil Turan?"

"No," Ermik said. "Nor will our native city profit from a scorned womanturning against us and all our plans. How long do you think we would liveif the Lady of the Mists hurled her magic against us?"

Muhbaras said that he doubted that a man could measure so short aninterval of time. Ermik nodded.

"Then the Lady should not feel scorned, even if this will make theMaidens jealous. Then, we need not fear so greatly. Nor need we fear themat all if the man goes to the Lady discreetly."

"That certainly means the man cannot be you," Muhbaras said. Then heshut his mouth with a snap of teeth as he realized that he had walked intoa cleverly baited trap.

He forced laughter. "I see that I have talked myself into doing as theLady wishes—which, of course, may be only to hear me sing tavern songsand juggle dried goat's ears—"

Ermik joined in the laughter. After the laughing ceased, Muhbaraspoured them both more wine. That emptied the jug, but there was enoughin his cup to soothe his dry throat, and all the wine in the world would notanswer the one question that remained.

How, in the name of every god who takes thought for such matters,does a common man go about scratching a sorceress with an itch?

The sandstorm blew up during the night, and was still blowing the nextday. The campsite had no well within its boundaries, as Khezal and Conanhad chosen it for ease of defense. However, the well was so close that witha rope strung from the outermost sentry post to the well, water bearerscould come and go safely even when the sand cut a man's vision to thelength of his outstretched arm.

One Greencloak, a new man not yet desert-wise, still wandered awayfrom the rope. Fortunately he had the wits to stop where night overtookhim, and as he had been returning from the well with full water bags, didnot suffer from thirst.

In the morning the man came in, scoured raw by the sand but nototherwise harmed, and Khezal ordered the camp broken. Sand was stilldrifting down from a haze-dimmed sky, and the horizon was barely visibleat all, but the captain said that the next campsite had two wells and couldbe held against an army.

"Even one that does not reckon losses if they can bring down anenemy?" Conan said.

"You understand the tribesmen well, Conan—"

"I am a Cimmerian. Does that answer your question?"

"Not entirely. I was about to say that you do not understand themperfectly. No chief will throw away too many warriors. They might bedriven to turn on him. Even if they remained loyal, if they were too few, histribe or clan might fall to a more numerous enemy, or he himself mightfall at the hands of a would-be chief with more followers. It is seldom thatthe tribesmen will fight to the last man, unless one gives them no choice.

"Of course," Khezal concluded with a wry grin, "this might be one ofthose times."

"I shall always remember you as a cheerful companion," Conan said.

"May we both live long enough to remember each other," Khezal said.

"We shan't, if you don't keep a better watch for snakes," Conan

snapped. He pointed at a desert asp wriggling toward the left forefoot ofthe captain's mount.

"I keep watch enough," Khezal said. In one moment his dagger was inhis hand. In another, it was sunk deep in the sand, severing the asp justbehind the hood. The body writhed furiously, but was still by the time thecaptain mounted.

They rode off, arrayed in the manner the Green-cloaks used when theyfeared a sandstorm. They rode close together, in double columns, with noman much farther than a spear's length from a comrade. Each man woreupon his clothes the whitest object he possessed, and there was a manwith horn or drum for every ten riders.

The boy Conan had known in the Ilbars Mountains had become a manto follow. If Khezal's will could have kept him safe in the Turanian service,the Cimmerian might even have returned to it.

But the gods had willed otherwise, so Conan would ride west once morewhen this quest into the North was done.

Eleven

That morning they were close to the stretch of desert the Girumgi calledtheir own. (Or at least the one where wandering strangers were more likelyto die at the hands of Girumgi than of any other tribe's warriors. That wasas far as territorial claims commonly went in the desert, where a tribe thatwished to could move almost as freely as a fleet of merchant vessels on theopen sea.)

So in spite of their formation, the riders were keeping a better lookoutfor human enemies than for the weather. It was not a total surprise whenthe sandstorm blew up again, but it gave what would have been littleenough notice even for the most vigilant men.

It did not help that only moments before the storm came upon them,they saw riders at the head of a val-ley not far off to their right. Thanks tosome curious twist of the land, the air between them and the riders was asclear as a fine day in Vanaheim. It was possible to count the riders, somethree score, and to recognize a Girumgi banner and headdresses amongthe nearer men.

Conan did not dispute the identification of the banner or the nearerriders, but his keen sight left him in doubt about the rest. He could nothave said what tribe they were, but he was prepared to wager that they

would turn out to be other than Girumgi.

He was not prepared to wager the lives of his men, however. He took thelead when the sky and air both turned brown and the Turanians had toseek shelter before they could no longer see their hands before their faces.He rode down into the foot of the valley, then spread his Afghulis in a lineacross it. Still mounted, they watched the Turanians follow them out ofthe thickening storm and find refuge in a natural bowl on the north side ofthe valley.

"We'll watch above, you watch below," Khezal said, or rather shouted.The sandstorm now howled like a gale at sea, and hand signals would havebeen more sensible had anyone been able to see them.

"Fair enough," Conan shouted back. He did not add that he waspersonally going to slip up the valley and see whom they might be facing.It would be hard to punish him for disobeying an order that he had notreceived.

Conan waited until Turanians and Afghulis were in their intendedplaces, and until the far end of the valley was as invisible as if it had beenin Vendhya. The storm was less thick in the valley than on the open desertabove, but Conan judged he could still slip close to these mysteriousneighbors without being seen.

This quest had already sprouted too many mysteries. Here perhaps wasone that he could solve before nightfall, risking no man's life but his own.

In this assumption he had not reckoned on Farad. When Conan slippedbetween the horses and gripped a rock to pull himself up and over, hefound Farad sitting cross-legged atop the rock.

"You were near having your throat slit," Conan snapped. "Indeed, youmay be still."

"Would that not be poor repayment for my loyalty?" the Afghuli said.

"Are you being loyal, or more like a louse in a man's breech-guard?"

"It seemed to us that you should not go scouting alone. Who wouldbring the truth, if you twisted an ankle or struck your head—"

"My head is not the one most likely to be struck here, my friend."

"—on a rock?" Farad went on, unperturbed and keeping his face totallyblank. "So we rolled dice for the honor of going with you."

"Using your dice, of course?" Conan said. He could not help smiling,moved by Farad's evident determination.

"Of course. I am not one to leave too much to chance."

"Then let us be off. I could have subdued you if I needed to go alone.Both of us together cannot subdue Khezal and his Greencloaks if theylearn of our plan."

Conan leaped off the far side of the rock, Farad followed him, and sideby side they walked into the storm.

The storm above must have been scouring the desert and blinding orchoking any traveler unfortunate enough to lack shelter. Before Conan andFarad had covered half the distance to the other band's outposts, they hadto veil all of their faces but their eyes to breathe freely.

Conan had heard of tribes in Khitai who had the art of making masks ofthe bladders of certain fish, transparent yet strong enough to keep out thesandstorms of their deserts. The Cimmerian did not wish himself inKhitai—curiosity was joining his oath to Khezal and his men, to drive himonward along the trail of this quest—but he vowed that if ever he returnedto Khitai, he would pay those tribesmen a visit.

Meanwhile, he was desert-wise enough to know how to study theground about him without ever facing directly into the wind, and how toshield his eyes with his fingers when he had no choice. At least today thereneed be no fear of sun-dazzle!

The ground grew more rugged toward the end of the valley. Evenwithout a sandstorm, a line of sentries would have needed to be closetogether to guard one another's flanks. As it was, the Girumgi sentrieswere a good spear-toss apart, and one at least seemed to have scant notionof a sentry's duties.

He wore a Girumgi headdress, two long daggers thrust into his belt, anda waist pouch. He also wore an expression of total disgust at being outhere alone amid the blowing sand.

The man furthermore spent much of his time in the shelter of a rock,which prevented both sand from reaching him and his eyes from reachingmuch of anything. When he did stand in the open, he looked more towardhis rear than his front. It was as if he expected enemies to leap from hisown camp, not from the valley before him.

Conan was prepared to snatch another prisoner, but Farad saw thesentry's weaknesses as swiftly as the Cimmerian, and struck faster.Crouching low enough to be hidden behind a waist-high rock, Faradcrawled to within arm's length of the sentry without being detected. Thenthe man heard or saw something amiss, his eyes widened—then theywidened further as Farad's flung dagger sank into the man's bare throat.

Conan crouched beside the fallen man, as windblown sand covered thepool of blood. "I wanted to capture him silently."

"I was silent. More so than you were, reproaching me."

Conan forced himself to remember that free speech to a chief was one ofthe most sacred rights of the free Afghuli warrior. The man to fear was hewho would not speak plainly to your face, as he was likely enough planningto thrust something sharper than words into your back.

"We must go forward, then. This time, I strike first."

"Of course, Conan. It is with stupid sentries as it is with willingwomen—there are usually enough to go around."

Conan and Farad slipped through the hole they'd made in the sentryline almost all the way to the main camp. Unfortunately, by the time theywere close enough to recognize tribal colors, the storm was blowing sothickly that their sand-scoured eyes could barely tell rocks from huddledhumans.

There were also too many of those huddled humans to make it safe tosnatch a prisoner. Even the scrape of dagger on leather sheath might beenough to alert five of the prisoner's comrades and bring on a battle royalat the worst possible moment.

Nothing would come of that except their deaths, leaving the Afghuliswithout leadership. Conan did not trust even Khezal enough to believe hiscomrades would then escape harm.

They crept in a wide half-circle around the dead sentry. His rock shelterhad almost vanished in the brown murk as the wind shifted and more ofthe storm blew into the valley. Conan thought he saw human figuresmoving around the rock, but could not be sure.

He hoped they were at least human if they were there at all. Asandstorm in unknown country was something to make a man believe inbeings from the netherworld breaking loose and wandering about, seekingto work ill.

Not long afterwards, Conan knew there had been someone watchingfrom the dead sentry's post—and that the watcher had seen him andFarad.

Someone was following them.

It was hard to be certain at first, and no one with eyes or ears less keenthan the Cimmerian's could have learned of the pursuer at all. Even deeperwithin the valley, the sand and dust were swirling thicker, and the wind

howled like the mourning cries of demons.

But Conan's ears picked out the clang of steel on stone, the rattle ofdislodged rocks, and once, the sound of breathing. Twice he went toground and saw something moving, as the one behind failed to do thesame in time to escape Conan's sharp eye.

At last Conan motioned to Farad, and whispered in the Afghuli's earthat their luck might be changing. They had snatched no prisoner fromthe enemy's ranks, but perhaps one might be about to crawl right intotheir arms.

"Your arms, I suppose," Farad said.

"One of us had best be free to run, if this goes amiss," Conan said.

"You need not whip a willing mule," Farad said sourly. "Good hunting,my chief." He crawled left as Conan slipped off to the right and went toground.

Shrewdly Farad ceased to make much effort to conceal himself. Thisbrought the pursuit in turn out of hiding—three robed men, none of themwearing any tribal markings Conan could recognize. The smallest of thethree seemed to be the leader, although the others seemed ready to arguewith their orders. At last all three seemed of one mind, and set off in astalking pursuit of Farad.

This brought the leftmost man so close to Conan that he could havereached out and touched him. This was precisely what he did, with a fistdescending like a club on the back of the man's neck. He jerked forwardand his chin slammed into rock hard enough to stun him.

Conan quickly bound the man's hands with strips of his garments, thenmade sure that he was breathing. Two score paces of crawling broughthim to the rear of the second man, the small one who led.

It also brought him into view of the third man on the right, just as aflurry of wind left clear air between them. The man's wordless cry gave thealarm, but he then made a fatal mistake by trying to roll over and unslinghis bow.

That gave Conan time to close with the smallest man and seize him. Theman struck at Conan with a dagger that seemed to be his sole weapon butwas sharp enough to add to the Cimmerian's collection of wounds. He alsokicked and screeched in a high-pitched voice that made Conan think hemight have captured a eunuch or a youth.

None of this kept Conan from taking a firm grip on his captive. Farad,meanwhile, was disposing of the archer. The Afghuli was so determined on

a silent kill that he gave the man enough time to have raised the alarm.Fortunately the sight of Farad looming over him seemed to strike the manmute. He tried to change weapons from bow to tulwar, and in the middleof the change Farad's sandal sank into the pit of his stomach. Bothweapons fell to the sand and the man fell on top of them.

Farad looked down at his victim. "Do we need him?"

"No," Conan said, as he finished binding and gagging his own captive."I doubt you'll even be needing to bind him. It will be evening before hecan draw a painless breath again."

Conan's captive was in better fettle. While he could neither speak norstruggle, so thoroughly was he gagged and bound, his large kohl-rimmedeyes glared eloquently.

"Game little cockerel, this one," Farad said, prodding the man in theribs. "And look at the quality of the robe and the belt. A chief's son, I'dwager."

Conan was looking at the robe and the belt, but he was also looking atwhat seemed to be under them. He knelt and ran a hand across thecaptive's shoulders, then down across one shoulder blade to the chest.

"Ha!" the Cimmerian said. "You'd lose that wager."

"Eh?" Farad said, bemused at his chief's behavior.

"It's a chief's daughter ."

"Eh," Farad said again, this time with an unmistakable leer.

Conan shook his head. "She's a good hostage as long as she's unharmedand not a moment longer. A hostage is worth ten women, where we are."

"Tell that to men who haven't seen a woman for months," Farad said."I've little taste for fighting the Greencloaks over this one."

The woman did not seem to understand the Afghuli speech the two menwere using, but the tones carried enough meaning. Her eyes were verywide, and her breath came quick.

Conan hoisted her over one massive shoulder and patted her lightly onthe rump. "Don't worry, lass," he said, in Turanian. "You were gameenough to earn a warrior's treatment besides being a good hostage.Anyone who comes to you will do it over my dead body."

"I stand by my chief with my blood and my steel."

Farad said. Although he spoke in Afghuli, the woman caught his toneand seemed to relax.

Then Conan stepped out, in a long ground-eating hillman's stride, withFarad guarding the rear. By the time they heard someone raising thealarm, they were nearly back to their own camp.

The name of the woman—barely that, for she admitted to no more thannineteen summers and looked younger—was Bethina. She was sister toDoiran, heir to the chieftainship of the Ekinari and blood-brother to thechief of the Girumgi. She was riding with a mixed band of Girumgi andEkinari to bring safely home those Girumgi who had escaped the battle inthe South.

All this she told willingly after they reached the camp—and after Conanand Farad saved her life.

They brought her in, unbound her feet, and removed her gag. Beforethey could do more, a man sprang from the dust, knife upraised to stab.

Conan replied with a foot upraised in the man's path. He stumbled overthe tree-thick leg and went sprawling. Farad's foot came down on hiswrist; he squealed and the knife fell from limp fingers.

Farad snatched up the dagger, freed the girl's hands, and gave her theblade. Conan nodded.

"Just be careful who you use it on, girl," he said. "I've not got so muchblood that I can afford to lose it to friends."

She actually grinned, then held up the blade in a way that showedexperience in fighting with steel.

She was just in time. A semicircle of Greencloaks had gathered aroundthem. Conan and Farad shifted, so that they as well as the girl had theirbacks to a stout rock. Conan looked upward, saw more Greencloaksclimbing atop the rock to attack from above, and decided that he would beleaving Turan with his honor intact but his hide somewhat otherwise.

"Hold!"

Khezal had a surprisingly robust voice for one of his modest stature andlean build. It rose above the cry of the wind and halted the Greencloaksabove and below where they stood.

"Now, what is this brawling?" Khezal said, stepping forward.

He listened while both sides told their tale. At least he had not lostauthority over his men. Conan had no illusions what would have happenedotherwise.

"The Greencloaks do not harm another's prisoner," he said at last.

"Milgun, ask Captain Conan's pardon."

"Captain—?" the man practically spat.

"Milgun," Khezal said. He did not need to say more, let alone draw steel.His eyes finished the work of his voice.

Milgun made a clumsy obeisance. "Your pardon, Conan," he said.

"Now, Conan," Khezal said. "Milgun lost a brother to the Girumgi lastyear. Anyone who rides with them is no friend to him."

"I—not enemy to Greencloaks," Bethina said haltingly.

"Your brother rides with the Girumgi and you (obscenity) yourbrother!" someone shouted.

The fragile peace nearly dissolved then and there. Bethina bared herteeth, reminding Conan of a Cim-merian wildcat defending her cubs.Conan was sorry if it embarrassed Khezal, but he was resolved to feed steelto the next man who shouted.

All saw that resolve on the Cimmerian's grim countenance and heldtheir peace.

"Bethina," Khezal said, in a tribal dialect that Conan barely understood."You say you are not an enemy to the Greencloaks. Yet your brother doesride with the Girumgi, who have certainly shed our blood, and not longsince.

"Tell us more."

"I—have not—not the right words," Bethina stammered.

"I will put your words into the speech of my people," Khezal said.

"And I will have the first man who brawls," Conan said.

The silence of the camp was broken only by the wind, until Bethinabegan to speak.

Twelve

Bethina's brother Doiran was deeper in intrigues than had beensuspected, or so it seemed from her story. He had at first swornblood-brotherhood to the chief of the Girumgi to assure his successionamong the Ekinari, if his father died prematurely.

Old Irigas did not die prematurely. Indeed, he had not yet died at all.But he was all but bedridden, and seldom spoke of anything save

long-dead wives and long-ago battles.

"He will die in peace," Bethina said through Khezal, "but his legacy tohis people is a son who will lead them to war."

The Girumgi were always ready to try conclusions with Turan, andlistening to their hotheaded younger warriors had done no good work onDoiran's judgment. However, he was too shrewd to trust only to one set ofallies.

Khoraja had a long rivalry with Turan, if the fox could be said to have arivalry with the elephant. Any time in the last century, if Turan hadwished to turn Khoraja into a satrapy or even a desert, it could have doneso. The price would have been great, in blood and treasure and also in newenemies for Turan, but it could have been done.

The ironhanded young Yezdigerd seemed more likely than his sire toattempt the overthrow of Khoraja, so the Khorajans were looking to theirdefenses. They were intriguing with the desert tribes, and they had foundready ears (and open palms) among Doiran and his followers in the ranksof the Ekinari.

It was then that Bethina spoke for herself.

"Many Ekinari—friends to Turan. Or not friends— honest men. ThinkKhoraja—use us like—like toys. I, Bethina—for these I speak."

No one seemed ready to believe than any desert tribesmen could be truefriends to anyone, let alone Turan. But it was possible to believe that theydid not care to be cat's paws for Khoraja. The shrewdness, if not thehonesty, of the tribesmen had been a proverb in Turan for nearly as longas the empire had borne that name.

"The tribesmen aren't fools," Milgun admitted. "The Ekinari least of all.Lady, maybe I did not think."

As Milgun was widely believed incapable of chewing nuts and walkingat the same time, this drew laughter. But it was the healthy kind, andpresently the men dispersed, to look to their mounts and gear, so as to beready to ride out when the storm abated.

At last Bethina, Farad, Khezal, and Conan were alone. Khezal keptlooking back down the valley, as if expecting a solid wall of furiouswarriors to sprout from the sand at any moment.

"Best we be ready to fight or flee, if the lady's friends come for her," hesaid.

"Oh, I do not think that will happen, or at least not soon enough to

fear," Bethina said. Suddenly she spoke flawless Turanian, with the tonesof a noblewoman.

The three men looked at the woman as if she had just grown a longpurple tail. Then they looked at one another.

Bethina laughed. "In truth, the men with me—and I am grateful thatthey were not slain—were there to help me be taken captive. When theyare found, they will show where I fell down into a crevice. I will be thoughtdead, at least for long enough that we may ride north safely."

Conan nodded. It seemed the politest thing to do. It also occurred tohim that Bethina's allegiance was even more of a gift than it had seemed.If he remembered correctly, the Ekinari's lands were well to thenorth—toward the Kezankian Mountains, if not actually bordering ontheir foothills.

They might know more than most about the mysteries of thosemountains.

Bethina nodded graciously, as the heiress of some great house mighthave nodded to three upper servants. "I look forward to riding with yougentlemen, for I see in you wisdom and strength."

Then she vanished into the murk, so swiftly and silently that for amoment Conan wondered if she was a spirit. But then he saw footprints,even now filling with windblown sand, and heard laughter like the tinklingof temple bells from behind a rock.

The three men looked at one another again, and all spoke a single word,each in his native tongue.

" Women !"

They rode out as soon as the sandstorm died enough to allow traveling,but before there was too little wind to cover their tracks and too little sandin the air to hide them. They put several hours of desert between them andthe Girumgi, then found a patch of rough, scrub-grown ground and wentto earth like so many foxes.

As daylight drained from the sky and a spangling of stars took its place,they mounted and were once more on the move.

Riding by night and resting up by day, it took them five days to reachEkinari lands. Or at least these were lands where one was more likely toencounter riders of the Ekinari than those of any other tribe.

The Ekinari were hardly a peaceful people—in the desert as in

Afghulistan, no lover of peace at any price lived long enough to breed sons.But as Bethina pointed out, they had more good wells and safe places fortheir women and children than many tribes.

"Our warriors do not need to ride across every patch of ground andcleanse it of enemies, that the tribe may live," Bethina said. "We can lookbeyond today's blood-feuds. That is why Doiran will not prevail in theend."

"That might be so, if he stood or fell by what the Ekinari will do forhim," Conan pointed out. "With the warriors and the gold of the Girumgibehind him, he will think that he can do as he pleases. He may even beright."

"That is not the brother I knew," Bethina replied. "You are saying thathe is ready to make slaves of his own people, if he can be their masterunder the Girumgi?"

"Good men have done worse things when ambition fuddles their wits,"Conan said sharply. "Besides, it's not hard to find tribesmen to follow youif you say you seek to hurt Turan. Turan has not been just in its dealingswith the desert folk, and they have long memories for grievances."

Bethina gave Conan a radiant smile, and Khezal gave him a sour look.Farad carefully looked at the desert, but the Cimmerian could see a smilecurving the man's lips under his beard.

Under the stars, they rode toward the Kezankian Mountains.

The Kezankian Mountains did not tower as high as the Ibars range inTuran, let alone the Himelias in northern Vendhya. Those were mountainsthat seemed fit to hold up the very sky, or pierce it and thrust theirsnow-clad peaks into the abyss beyond.

However, from the direction Conan and his companions approachedthem, the Kezankians leaped almost straight from the desert. Eaglesnesting halfway up the mountain faces looked as tiny as doves, even to theCimmerian's keen eyes. Birds flying any higher were as invisible as if theyhad been mag-icked.

Meanwhile, the desert wind itself grew cooler, and its flutings andpipings around the rocks set more than one man's teeth on edge.

"It's as if the wind itself knows this is a place to avoid," Farad said.

"Ha," Conan said. "I thought you would be feeling more at home thanyou have since we—"

"Fled Afghulistan?" Farad said. His grin showed all his teeth, but therewas no mirth in his black eyes. Then he shook his head.

"I know what my homeland's mountains may hold—"

"Bandits, sheep, and lice," Bethina said. Farad stared at her, thenlaughed loud enough to raise echoes.

"Not so wrong, lady," Farad said. "But even the lice are—I won't callthem friends , but at least no strangers to a man. Everyone is a stranger tothese mountains, and they look like the sort who treat any stranger as anenemy."

Looking up at the gray walls before them and listening once more to thewind, Conan could not find it in his heart to disagree.

They found the remains of the camp the next morning, soon after theythemselves had made camp for the day. Out hunting with Farad, Conanwas the first to see the patch of soot in the middle of the trampled ground.

While Farad kept watch, the Cimmerian squatted by the trampledground and studied it. He sifted soil between his fingers, sniffed the ashes,and finally rose.

"You look like a hound seeking a scent," Farad said.

"Close enough," the Cimmerian replied. "Now let's be finding theirmidden-pit. I'd wager this camp held at least forty men, tribesmen andothers. Something they left in the pit has to tell us more about who theyare."

"If we can find it and dig it up," Farad said.

"Oh, I think we can find it. As for digging it up, I'll do it myself if there'sno other way."

"I can spare you that, my chief."

As it happened, Khezal's orders spared both Conan and Farad the dirtychore. A gang of Greencloaks set briskly to work with knives, hands, andthe odd spade. (Cavalry were not much for building field-works orcarrying digging tools with them.) The rubbish they unearthed told Khezaland Conan much the same.

"Two score bandits—what the tribes call loose-feet," Khezal said."They're commonly a desperate, vicious lot."

"Then who left this?" Conan said, holding up a blackened square ofmetal.

"A Khorajan left his cloak pin," Khezal said. "In truth, a Khorajancaptain, or at least a man of rank. That's silver with a relief of the king, asfar as I can judge under the soot."

"Are you sure serving Mishrak never tempted you?" Conan chaffed theTuranian. "You have a good nose for spy's work."

"Also a tender conscience about it," Khezal said. He lowered his voice."More so since Yezdigerd's accession, and I'd wager I'm not the only one."

Conan had no doubt of that. There were as many honest folk in Turanas anywhere, and more than in some lands he had traveled (and mostlydeparted as swiftly as he'd come). But as long as Yezdigerd's promise ofempire dazzled their eyes with glory and filled their hands with gold, manyTuranians might be less honest than they would be otherwise.

Turan might profit from his quest with Khezal, but the Cimmerianintended to end it far from Turan with the jewels at his belt, bound onceagain for Koth.

"Best we mount a good guard," Khezal said. "Forty loosefeet with acivilized captain leading them might do some mischief if they surprisedus."

Conan nodded. "Perhaps. But we might do them more, if we surprised them ."

Khezal frowned. Conan gave a gusty laugh.

"You Turanians still think like the plains horsemen who were yourancestors. You should never go to war without a hillman or few along, totell you what to do when the land's at a slant."

Khezal threw the Cimmerian a weary look. "Very well, my friend. Youspeak and I will listen. But by all the gods, for every needless word you say,I will take one jewel from that bag before I return it to you. Talk me deaf,and you will ride empty-pursed for Koth."

"Better empty-pursed than empty-headed," Conan riposted. He drewhis dagger and began to trace lines in the sand with the point.

Conan shifted his weight cautiously, lest a dislodged stone roll farenough to make a sound. The desert night was still, the wind for onceasleep like everything else.

Or rather, as the bandits would expect everything else to be.

The trap Conan had proposed was simple. The main band would campin the very shadow of the cliffs, choosing a place where no one could strike

from above unless they rode on the back of an eagle. They would be loudand lax in keeping watch, as if they thought themselves safe in theirbarracks. Anyone watching as the light faded would see easy prey, withhardly a sentry about, and none of those sober.

After dark, the revelry would continue, for all that Khezal swore to geldanyone who actually let a drop of wine touch his lips. Meanwhile, bands ofmen chosen for their handiness with steel and their keen night-sightwould creep unseen out into the sand, at three points covering the threeapproaches to the main body.

Anyone who yielded to the thought of murdering and lootingunsuspecting and incapable victims would face the rudest of surprises.Indeed, a man could die from such a surprise.

A small hand touched the Cimmerian's shoulder. He did not move, buthis heart leapt within him. Perhaps the thought about dying of surprisehad been ill omened.

He did not strike, however, because in the next moment the hand waslaid gently across his mouth. He felt slender but strong fingers across hislips, and smelled healthy woman and the faintest of perfumes.

Conan shifted position again. His eyes were now accustomed to thedark, and he had no difficulty recognizing Bethina. What gave himdifficulty was her reason for being out here with the ambush posts, and hecould hardly ask her now, not when the slightest whisper might warnlurking foes.

She solved the problem for both of them by sliding into his arms, untilher head rested on his shoulder and her lips were against his ear. Theywere more than agreeable lips to feel, fluttering softly on his skin as sheexplained.

"The men are taking their part too seriously. They do nothing but singone lewd song after another."

Conan grunted, and shifted a third time, so that he could reply toBethina as she had spoken to him. Her ear also felt more than pleasantagainst his lips.

"You're no garden rose, to wilt at a few rough words. Tell me the truth."

She was silent briefly, then replied:

"I see you know women."

"If I didn't at my age, I'd be a fool or bleaching bones."

"Perhaps. But—under law, I can be chief over the Ekinari, instead of

Doiran. Under law, if I do as a man does."

"And how do men among the Ekinari?"

"They must—they must be whole men, not eunuchs. Also, they musthave taken a foe in battle."

The promise in the first words made Conan's blood race. The danger inthe second silenced it at once.

"This is no game, Bethina."

"The bandits are no friend to Ekinari or any other tribe. The Khorajansstill less so. I did not come here for sport, Conan."

The Cimmerian fought back laughter. "There are sports and sports,lady. But I agree, a dark ditch waiting for flea-ridden bandits is no placefor most of them." He squeezed an admirably firm and rounded shoulder."You'll find me as apt as—"

The Cimmerian broke off abruptly. In a lull in the songs from camp, aless convivial sound had reached his ears. It might have been the windrising again; it might also have been the hiss of sand sliding under anincautious footfall.

The wisest thing was to wait for the intruder's next mistake. Bethinastiffened but made no sound, save the faintest rustle as she drew steelfrom under her robes.

The sound came again. This time it was unmistakably a footfall. Amoment later a pebble rattled, the sound lasting until Conan could judgethe direction. The intruder was close to the left. Too close to be left alone.

All very well, but he had no wish to spring the trap for a single man."We want to draw them in, put an end to most of them, and learn fromthe rest," he remembered Khezal telling the men.

Again Conan moved, with the caution of a snake approaching a bird. Hesaw a darker patch against the sky, man-shaped and hardly a spear'slength away. The man wore a bandit's ragged robes and was as hairy andbearded as one, but he wore a sword and dagger with silver hilts.

Too vain of his blades to blacken them for night work , the Cimmerianthought. The ranks of warriors would not miss this one.

The man turned at the last moment, so saw his death coming in theshape of a gigantic dark form leaping apparently from the ground. Then afist like a maul exploded in his stomach and an arm like a giant snakelocked around his neck. The man's senses had left him before his assailanthad laid him on the ground.

Conan crouched in turn, stripping off the man's robes. A wide-eyedBethina pulled the senseless man into the ditch and began binding hishands and feet with strips of his own garments, as Conan took his victim'splace. He had to stoop a trifle to look the same size, although the man hadbeen well grown. He had also worn under his robes more than enough tosay "Khoraja" to anyone who knew the handiwork of that city's artisans.

The Cimmerian reached down and stroked Bethina's forehead, all hecould reach without dropping his guard. He thought he heard a light,nearly stifled giggle, and vowed to touch more than her forehead as soonas they found a time and place. The lass had heart and wits to go with herlooks!

In the Khorajan's place, Conan had a clear view all around him, to thehorizon in three directions and the cliff in the fourth. The fires in thecamp were dying down; no need to burn scarce dung to keep up the act.The stars no longer glowed undimmed; a haze was creeping across the sky.Another sandstorm? Conan hoped not, for he had small taste for anotherblind groping against a far deadlier foe than Bethina's "guards."

The sound this time was many footfalls, men trying so hard to be silentthat they would have succeeded against almost any man but theCimmerian. He counted more than twenty dark-robed and hooded figureswith either bows or swords. Then farther off he heard a horse whicker.

The bandits themselves had divided their forces. Some would no doubtrush in to surprise the camp and sow panic. Then their mountedcomrades would ride in to finish the work, driving off the Turanians'horses and carrying away loot and prisoners. The surviving Greencloakswould have small chance of pursuing, or even of living through anotherencounter with the meanest foe.

It did not take a warrior of Conan's experience to doubt that thebandits had devised this scheme by themselves. A shrewder captain thanthe bandits of any land usually produced was behind tonight's work.

The silence from the camp ran on. Conan cursed in several tongues.Before, he would have given much to send a silent message to the camp forquiet so he could hear the enemy approaching. Now he would have asgladly sent a message to them to sing and dance, so the bandits would notsuspect that they had been detected.

Another whicker, closer, and Conan turned only his head in thedirection of the horse-sounds. The mounted bandits were approachingthrough a dry wash that they thought concealed them completely. But alow part of the bank let Conan's eyes pick them out of the darkness.

Before darkness, the Cimmerian had ridden over much of the countryfor several bowshots around the camp. If his memory served him as to theground in the enemy's path, there was a narrow end to the dry wash,where a handful might block many. A pity not to be able to do the workhimself, but being where you were not expected in a night battle was theeasiest way known to gods or men to be killed by your friends.

Conan now turned his head the other way, and this time the cursesescaped his lips. Another band of loosefeet had drifted into sight assilently as a moving sand dune. They were marching straight for themouth of the draw. No barring that to the horsemen now, not even by aCimmerian's sword.

A very longheaded captain, the one who led the enemy tonight. Conanwould gladly enroll him among the chiefs he had slain and sing a deathsong for him. He would still more gladly ask him what he did in this land,and who else aided him.

With his hands, Conan signaled to the six Afghulis at his post. The planhad been for all three outposts to strike the enemy in the rear. But themen in posts closer to the cliff now could not move that fast without beingseen or heard and caught on open ground by bandit archers. In thatsituation, they were to rally on the camp itself and swell the ranks of itsdefenders—or face the wrath of both Khezal and Conan together.

The attack from the rear would now rest on broad Cimmerianshoulders—although six Afghulis accustomed to bladework in the darkwere no despicable foe either. Together, Conan expected that he and theAfghulis might even be able to keep Bethina alive, although the harder shetried to "take her man," the harder that task would be.

Conan's chivalry toward women never let him keep one out of a fightshe entered of her own free will. But the Ekinari would not be grateful if heled Bethina into battle and did not lead her out again safely. UngratefulEkinari could be a menace to the quest or the peace of Turan, and eitherway a menace to Khezal's future.

A man did not need to deal with moneylenders, Conan thought, to learnthat he could owe too much to too many different people!

The Afghulis slipped along behind Conan as silently as the Cimmerian,more so than their enemies. Bethina not only kept up, she made hardlymore noise than her companions.

So it was not any of those with Conan who alerted the prowlingloosefeet to their danger.

"Eeeeenaaaa—ha!"

The war cry split the night. Conan saw shadows swirl and dance assome bandits faced about, to repel attack from their rear. Others dashedforward, hoping to reach the camp in time to find the sleepy or thedrunken struggling out of their blankets.

With battle joined, speed was now more important than silence. Conanbroke into a run, slowing his pace only enough to not outdistance hiscompanions too much. Being a match for any three warriors was noreason to go into battle alone when there was no need.

So Conan struck the bandits only a few paces ahead of Farad, and Faradonly a few paces ahead of the other Afghulis. Bethina brought up the rear,but just before Conan drew his sword he heard her shriek.

"Leave one for me, Conan!"

Conan cursed and laughed in the same breath. He needed no advice,and Bethina had revealed her presence to the enemy. He would be glad toleave her a live foe or two, but he wondered if her enthusiasm for bloodingher steel would survive her first battle. Knowing that you held men's liveson the edge of your sword sobered most warriors, and those it did notsober were as mad dogs, and the faster they were killed, the better forhonorable men.

The ground dropped from under Conan's feet. He turned a stumble intoa somersault and came up with gravel in his hair, sand in his mouth, andhis sword still in his hand. He also came up so close to his first opponentthat he barely had time to parry the first stroke of the man's tulwar.

Conan's riposte disarmed the man, and as he drew back to make wayfor better-armed comrades, the Cimmerian let him go. He was fightingagainst four or five, as far as he could tell. He would not borrow troubleunless his foes knew no more of swordsmanship than children. Thechildren, that is, of other lands than Cimmeria.

Conan cut down two men without ever seeing them clearly, or so hejudged from the way his slashes jarred his arm and the men he slashedscreamed. A third proved that he was no child by getting in under theCimmerian's guard with a long dagger. Conan buffeted the man with hisfist, and as he reeled, brought his knee up under the man's jaw. Jaw andneck both sundered by the blow, the man fell lifeless.

By now the ground about the Cimmerian was slippery with blood andcluttered with the dead or the dying. Fortunately he could give way,because now the Afghulis were up on either flank, and he could hear their

steel meeting the bandits' even as he kept his eyes firmly on his own partof the battle.

So he did not see Bethina running up until she had run past him, intothe midst of the enemy. How she escaped being skewered by mistake wasa mystery that only the gods of battlefields knew, and Conan doubted thatthey ever bothered to share their knowledge with honest warriors.

He could not doubt that Bethina was in mortal danger, or would be themoment the enemy realized she was among them.

Cimmerian speed and strength saved Bethina, along with the slow witsof her enemies and her own well-wielded blade. She was admirably free ofquaint notions about fair play in a desperate fight; she took her first manby stabbing him in the back. His scream warned comrades, but his lifewas already fleeing as Bethina snatched her dagger free and faced newfoes.

One of these seemed so unmanned by facing a woman that Conanhardly needed steel to end his fighting. A swift kick sent the man downwith a shattered knee, and Conan's other foot stamping on his arm senthis tulwar flying.

Bethina's next opponent was made of sterner stuff. He had only adagger, but was supple and swift as a cat. He locked blades with theEkinari girl, then gripped her by the hair. She gasped at the pain and triedto bring her knee up. This threw her off balance, and both opponents fell,the bandit on top.

Still Bethina fought without crying out or giving up, if not with greatskill. Slowly the bandit's greater strength and weight threatened to prevail,as he forced her knife back against her breast and the point of his owncloser to her flesh.

The bandit had at most a heartbeat to savor his coming triumph beforedeath took him. Conan's fingers gripped his hair and yanked him upright,and the Cimmerian's sword slashed in a deadly arc, severing his spine andnearly cutting through his rib cage from the rear.

Bethina sprang to her feet, pale where she was not covered with her latefoe's blood. "Your kill," she said, nodding to Conan. Her eyes wereunnaturally wide and her lips parted, although her voice was remarkablysteady for so newly fledged a warrior. To the Cimmerian, they seemedfuller than before, and even more inviting, not that he had found faultwith them earlier—

"Look out!" Bethina screamed.

Conan moved, as it seemed to the man approaching him from behind,in three directions at once. Then his sword came out of nowhere andcaught the attacker across the throat. The man's head lolled, nearlysevered from his neck, but he remained on his feet long enough to blockthe passage of a comrade.

That gave Bethina time to prepare herself. As Conan's victim fell and hiscomrade worked around the Cimmerian's flank, Bethina struck. Shesprang forward from a low crouch, driving her knife up under the man'sthroat. He was wearing a boiled-leather neck-guard, but instead ofwarding off or catching Bethina's blade, it deflected it upward.

The dagger's point ripped into the man's throat. It did not quite reachhis brain, the blade not being long enough nor Bethina's arm strongenough to thrust it that far. But it killed the man quite as effectively asever Conan's own blade could have done.

" That one is yours," Conan said. "I will stand witness, before gods andmen."

For a moment he thought she was going to kiss or even embrace him,either course a sad folly on a battlefield that would have lowered hisopinion of her wits. She held herself back, however, and then the swirl ofbattle was around them again. They had to stand back to back and defendthemselves for a good while, a bad position for kissing even if one had noother work at hand.

Between them, Conan, Bethina, and the Afghulis put down or drove offmost of the bandits. The few survivors who did not flee kept their distance.One had a bow and no fear of hitting friends; his arrows hissed randomlydown about Conan and Bethina.

"Best get down, girl."

"I am no girl, and that archer could not hit a camel that was inside hisown tent."

"Maybe, but worse archers have killed good men." The Cimmerian liftedBethina with his hands under each arm, and dropped her into a ditch.

"Farad?"

"Here, my chief."

"Keep this lady company for a while. Sit on her if you must."

"If you do, Farad, no woman will ever give you pleasure."

"My heart breaks."

"I was not thinking of your heart, Farad."

Bidding the remaining Afghulis to remain where they were, Conanloped off into the darkness. He was going against his own war-wisdom,but something perturbed him. The horsemen had not ridden down on thecamp, although he could still hear their mounts not far off.

Nor was the third force of bandits either engaged or in sight. Theymight have sunk into the earth or grown wings and flown off to the stars,for all the Cimmerian could see of them. He disliked leaving his Afghulis,but knew that no man among the Turanian ranks was more adept at nightscouting than he was. If anyone could unearth the answer to yet another mystery, it was the Cimmerian.

The Cimmerian also nearly paid with his life twice over for the answershe found. The first time was when he rounded the shoulder of a low sanddune and came hard upon a band of tribesmen lying in wait. They hadbeen so silent that even his ears did not pick their breathing out of thedesert night, he so cat-footed that their ears seeking other sounds gave nowarning.

Four arrows flew almost in a single breath, and it was the favor of thegods (not to mention the Cimmerian's own lightning-quick fall and roll)that kept any of them from doing him serious hurt. He rolled to withinarm's reach of the nearest tribesman, plucked him from his hiding placelike a boy picking a pear from a tree, and drew the man in front of him asa shield.

"Hold," he whispered. "Who do you follow?"

"Bethina," someone said, immediately hushed by several others. Then avoice that was, incredibly, that of an aged woman, said:

"Stand up, that I may see you."

Conan made a rude suggestion about what the old woman could dowith that idea. He heard a soft laugh—a laugh, not a cackle, which mighthave come from a woman hardly older than Bethina.

"No. By Crom, Mitra, and all lawful gods, I will curse any who harm youwithout my leave."

It struck Conan that if the old woman, whom he had no cause to trust,did give leave, he would be dead before he fell to the ground. Thosearchers would not miss again.

But these people were not behaving like blood enemies. If they were not,there was small cause to reveal them. Also, he had now seen the headdressof the man he was using as a shield. It was too dark to make out colors,but the pattern of the headdress was the same as Bethina's.

Conan stood up, without releasing his prisoner.

"Let Gorok go." The old woman spoke like someone accustomed tocommand. Bethina's mother? A tribal sorceress? Whatever she might be,Conan decided it was something to be obeyed—although he drew bothsword and dagger before he freed Gorok.

"Yes-s-s-s-s." The old woman's one hissed word reminded Conanunpleasantly of sounds heard in the temples of Set the Great Serpent,when it was time to feed the sacred snakes.

Conan vowed that if the woman turned into a snake now, it would beher last act in this world.

Instead the old woman laughed softly again. "Fools! This is he whosaved Bethina! I saw it, and do any of you deny that I have true vision?"

No one did. The old woman indeed sounded like some ancient villagecrone of Cimmeria, women honored and more than a Uttle feared evenwhen they were in their right senses.

"I am a friend to Bethina," Conan said, choosing his words carefully. "Ifyou are kin or friends to her, then I can hardly be your ene—"

"Hsssst!" someone said. Conan recognized, the universal call for silenceand alertness, and went to a crouch. As he did, he understood why theriders had not yet charged in. They were either comrades to these men,and therefore friends, or they had seen these men and were maneuveringagainst them.

Which was yet another mystery, in a journey that had already producedfar more than an honest warrior could contemplate with any peace ofmind. Conan knew of no god who could truly and reliably be bribed withsacrifices. If he had, he would gladly have promised such a god almostanything imaginable for no more than that this journey should hold nomore mysteries .

Perhaps some god did hear part of the Cimmerian's unvoiced wish.Certainly this particular mystery died almost at the moment of its birth.Perhaps the bandit riders had overheard Conan's meeting with those whowaited. Perhaps their own comrades signaled for help. Perhaps someunderchief among them simply grew tired of waiting.

Regardless, the rattle of hooves on stones cut off the Cimmerian'swords. He leapt for higher ground and saw the others also moving. Onlythe old woman was not running, and she was walking briskly enough forone of the age her voice revealed.

Unless it was her laugh that told the truth, and in such case, was she a

witch?

Likely enough, the voice of experience whispered to Conan. It also toldthe Cimmerian that few magic-wielders ever served any cause but theirown. Finally, it told him that if this woman was truly Bethina's friend,then her cause and Conan's might march together.

That was all the listening to voices Conan had time for, before theloosefoot riders came down upon him and his newfound comrades.

Four or five of them rode a little behind and to one side of theircomrades. Conan's path also separated him a trifle from his. So themounted bandits found themselves riding at a single man on foot, and letout shrill cries of triumph at sighting this easy prey.

They were more mistaken than they could know in their remainingmoments of life. They were contending against more than his strength,speed, and war-wisdom. They were contending against a man who hadbeen a seasoned warrior before he ever bestrode a horse. Moreover, he wasa son of Cimmeria, a land that had never spawned a mounted army buthad devoured more than a few. What Conan did not know about how aman on foot might best those on horseback was hardly knowable bymortal man.

He threw sand in the face of one horse, then darted aside from it andunder the slash of its rider's sword to hamstring the next horse frombehind. He had to parry another down-cut with his own sword, but thatslowed the rider enough to let a Cimmerian hand grip the man's near leg.

The rider came out of the saddle like the bung from an ale barrel, flewin an arc over Conan's head, and smashed down headfirst. No man couldsurvive an impact that made such a sound of crushing skull and crackingspine.

The next rider flourished a lance, and squalled triumph as he saw theCimmerian appear to stumble. The "stumble" was judged very exactly, totake the Cimmerian a finger's breadth clear of the lance point withouttaking him out of reach of the lancer.

The lancer discovered this as his horse suddenly staggered. It staggeredfrom the weight of a Cimmerian leaping on its back. Then the riderscreamed from the pain of a dagger thrusting into his vitals from behind,and fell with a thud as Conan flung him to the ground like a sack of grain.

In the confusion the last rider did not notice that his opponent hadtransformed himself from a helpless footman to sudden death and now toa mounted foe. Conan did not give the man time to repent of this error. He

saw that the man's horse had its rump toward him, and mischievouslybent out of the saddle and jerked its tail.

The horse tried to rear and kick out at the same time. It failed to doeither, and instead lost its balance and toppled. The rider found himselfsliding inexorably backward out of his saddle, then suddenly suspended inthe air by one stout Cimmerian arm.

The man stared into cold blue eyes from which Death itself seemed tolook out. Then the harsh dark face that held those eyes split in gustylaughter. The man fainted with sheer relief and never felt himself strikethe ground as Conan dropped him.

Then he was looking over the heads of his new comrades as they shot,pulled, or hacked the remaining mounted bandits out of the saddle, to seeBethina running across the sands. He raised his voice to shout, "Down!"and at the same time raised his sword.

It came down on the arm of a loosefoot archer drawing on Bethina, andarm, bow, and arrow all tumbled to the ground. The archer followed thema moment later, with a split skull.

Then Bethina ran lightly through the melee, dagger drawn but givinglittle heed to other possible dangers, and threw her arms around a smallfigure standing by an upthrust rock. Conan heard the figure complain, inthe old woman's voice:

"Bethina! Spare my ribs, for the gods' love!"

The tone was that of an old nurse to a beloved child now grown towomanhood. Conan slipped out of the saddle and flexed his shoulders toease tension.

Whoever the old woman's companions might be, they could hardly beenemies to any friend of Bethina, quite apart from the fight that they hadmade beside Conan against the loosefeet. There were still mysteriesaplenty hovering about this quest, like vultures about a poisoned spring,but the answer to this one at least seemed free of danger.

Thirteen

The summons that had to be from the Lady came to Muhbaras somedays later.

The summons itself was no surprise. The chamber to which a Maidenled him was a considerable one.

It was hung with moldering tapestries, and the bare rock floor was piledwith rank furs and roughly cured hides. A low table was the onlyfurnishing, bearing cheap brass plates and bowls filled with biscuits andfruit and lightly covered with coarse cloth. A jug of wine shared the table,as well as two cups.

Muhbaras had time to cease to be surprised before the door closedbehind him. His next thought was that on this cold floor, bedding theLady, who was fair but a trifle thin-flanked, might not give her muchpleasure. His next thought was that he would give three fingers for adrink, but knew not what might be in the wine.

Instead he sat down, rolled up a fur to pad his back, and leaned backagainst the wall. Again he chose a position where he could see the wholeroom—so he leapt nearly to the ceiling when he heard a soft sigh behindhim.

The sigh, as of a child exhaling, was followed by a low rumble. By nowMuhbaras stood in the center of the room, cursing the floor coverings fortangling his feet when he wanted freedom to move swiftly. He had juststarted kicking a space clear when a section of wall pivoted on a centralshaft, leaving blackness on either side.

Cool air with a faint scent of moss trickled out of the blackness. Thenthe blackness itself seemed to move, turning blue as it did. A luminousmist filled the gaps on either side of the stone panel, and in one of thosegaps a white-limbed form took shape.

With fluid grace, as if she herself were a creation of mist, the Ladystepped forth into the chamber.

"How powerful do you think the old woman is?" Khezal asked.

Conan looked askance at the Turanian captain. "Omyela? And you'reasking me about her ?"

"You're a longheaded man, Conan my friend. Also longsighted. You maysee farther than most into this old witch."

"I've learned only enough about sorcerers and their ilk to be able todefeat or avoid them. If you want real knowledge, send to Aghrapur."

"Aghrapur is a long ways off, my friend. You are here. Also, if half thestories about you are true, you've done more than fight free of the clutchesof sorcerers. You've walked away leaving a good many of the breed deadbehind you."

"I've done that with many who tried to keep a reluctant guest," Conansaid.

"Nonetheless, you've doubtless learned more than you think you know."

"Very well. I trust Bethina, and she speaks well of Omyela. She alsoseems a shrewd old body to me. Whether she's fit to contend with the Ladyof the Mists, I don't know. Nor will anyone else, until we all learn a triflemore about the Lady."

Conan finished his cup in a single swallow and belched in the manner ofthe desert tribesmen complimenting their host's hospitality. "As to howwe shall do that—how goes the questioning of our captives?"

"Well enough, and I thank you for your care in providing us withKhorajan prisoners. Unfortunately one of them died before he talked, andthe other told us only a little we did not already know."

"Such as what?"

"That only one Khorajan, a captain named Muhbaras, actually entersthe Valley of the Mists. It is his company that escorts the captives to thegate. There are tales that the Lady looks upon him with more favor thanshe does most men."

"Good luck to Muhbaras, then. That's a fate I'd not wish on a priest ofSet. Any more?"

Khezal shrugged. "Muhbaras may have twenty men, he may have ahundred. He may have a wizard of his own, he may only have a royal spy.Tales all, and each contradicting the last one."

"Somehow, I cannot cheer at this. But it's no worse than I expected. Butwe send scouts up to the mouth of the valley. Even if they don't come back,that itself will teach us more than we know. Also, they could ask thevillagers who've been providing the victims what they know. A littlepromise of protection would loosen tongues, I'm sure."

"I'd favor that, but we can't split the men that way. A large enoughscouting party, and we'd be helpless here below if the Girumgi appeared."Khezal shook his head. "No, I hate to appear in leading strings, but I thinkwe need to call for reinforcements. Ten score more Greencloaks or eventribal levies, and we can send up to the valley enough men to do real work.Not just scout but fight."

"We'll have to tie Bethina up to keep her from biting people," Conansaid, laughing. "She badly wants this mist menace driven away from hertribe's lands."

"Conan, from the way the young lady's been looking at you, I'm sure youcan find a dozen other and more pleasurable ways of making herharmless."

The Cimmerian grinned. He did not tell Khezal that an order to spendtime in Bethina's company was exactly what he'd been trying to gain.

There were opportunities beckoning that Khezal's plans might let slip.But to take advantage of them, Conan would need the Ekinari woman'shelp.

As he had not known when to expect his meeting with the Lady of theMists, Muhbaras also had not known what she might be wearing.Considering how little she wore on many of the occasions he had met her,he would have been surprised by nothing.

The blue light playing about her concealed all but her face and hairuntil she was several paces into the room. Then the slab pivoted back,leaving only apparently blank wall behind the Lady.

Muhbaras could now see that she wore a long-sleeved gown thatcovered her from throat to ankles without concealing the grace andsuppleness of the body under it. One could not make out details, but onewas left in no doubt about the beauty of the woman standing there.

The Lady raised her hands, and her sleeves fell back to the elbows. Shewore thin silver bracelets on either wrist, the one on the right wrist setwith emeralds or some other like-colored stone, nearly as fine as sandgrains.

Muhbaras could not help catching his breath at the gesture. Thoseraised hands could be the first step in a spell—

"Fair and noble captain, there is nothing to fear."

"Perhaps I have nothing to fear," Muhbaras said. "But what of you? AmI worthy to treat you as you deserve?"

The Lady bit her lip, and Muhbaras was astonished to see that she washolding back laughter. The Khorajan felt a sudden urge to step forwardand take her in his arms while she laughed against his shoulder.

He reminded himself that laughter was part of being human, not all.The Lady might laugh like a girl, and still torment those about her like themaddest of despots grown old in vice and corruption. Both were in her.Both would be in his embrace. Muhbaras felt his temples throbbing.

"You are worthy," the Lady said softly. "You are worthy of a better

setting for our—" she hesitated and seemed to be flushing '—our meeting."

She carried no staff and wore no amulets or other magical devices thatMuhbaras could see. All he saw was three passes of those long-fingeredhands, exquisite fingers with nails the color of the desert sky at dawn,fingers that seemed very ready to be kissed—

Golden light flooded the chamber, dazzling Muhbaras for a moment. Hefelt heat on his face, then on his feet, then all around him. It faded, but didnot entirely disappear.

"You may open your eyes," the Lady's voice came.

Muhbaras did. The walls and roof of the chamber were now a vaultingof fine blue tile. The floor was the finest of golden sand. In onecorner—where the smelly furs had been piled—rose a pavilion, a crimsonand blue silk canopy supported by four rosewood posts, each carved in theform of a different marvelous beast. Muhbaras thought he recognized aleopard, a serpent, an otter, and a dragon.

Under the canopy lay a pile of silk cushions, and beside the cushions alow table, plain ebony on ivory legs. Golden dishes of cakes andsweetmeats covered it, making a circle around a silver jug of wine.

On the cushions lay the Lady of the Mists. She wore nothing except herbracelets, and her hair flowing like silken threads over her bare shouldersand down across her breasts. All the beauties Muhbaras had expectedwere there for him to see—and now to touch.

He felt his blood race and realized that he, too, wore nothing. The firststep toward the pavilion was as hard as if he wore iron boots, but thesecond was easier, the third easier still.

Before long, he was sitting beside the Lady. Her head was on hisshoulder, and he was nibbling a honey cake that she held up to him. Thelast of the cake vanished, and he found himself licking her fingers.

"The honey tastes real," he said. "You taste real."

"It is. I am," she said. Her voice was unsteady. "All that is here, all thatwill come to us here, is real."

"It seems too beautiful."

"You doubt my beauty?" she said, sitting up so that he could seeeverything. He looked—and saw in her eyes what could only be fear.

Desire and tenderness swept through Muhbaras. Here was the Lady ofthe Mists, sorceress with mighty magic at her command and mistress oflife and death over all the valley. Here also was a frightened maiden,

tasting desire for the first time, offering herself to a man that she mightfulfill that desire— and finding that all her magic was no help whatever. Ifshe had schemed for weeks to make Muhbaras ready to greet her as manto willing woman, she could not have found a better way.

Muhbaras closed the gap between them and lifted her fingers to his lips.He licked off the rest of the honey, then turned her hand over and kissedthe palm of the hand. Presently his lips crept up past the brace-let, and itwas not long after that before she opened her arms and all the rest of herto Muhbaras.

He thought that he had never heard a sweeter sound in his life, than thefirst time she cried out in delight.

It was almost enough to make him forget the cries of Danar in his lastagony at the Lady's hands.

"Omyela will not be pleased at waiting," Bethina said. She was walkingbeside Conan, bow in hand and quiver over her back. They were togetheron pretense of going hunting, close enough to the camp not to be indanger, far enough that no unwanted ears might hear their talk.

"I was not thinking that she would have to," Conan replied. "If she isready to ride out tonight—"

"You would go against Khezal?" Bethina asked.

Conan grinned. "Quick to see, aren't you?" he asked.

"I am not a green girl, and my father allowed me to sit in the councilmeetings of the tribe from my fourteenth year," Bethina said, with dignity.

"Pardon," Conan said. "I would go against Khezal if I had to. But I'm notsure that riding north is as much against his orders as he said."

"If it is not, he could be making a puppet of you," the woman said. "Ifyou succeed, he can claim the glory. If you fail, he can say you disobeyedhim, and your enemies in Turan will rejoice at your death."

"Khezal will have to change more than most men before he intriguesthat way," Conan said. "The most I think is that he's trying to guard hisback from his enemies in the Great City.

"But you're right. He may be trusted, but no doubt there are royal spiesamong the Greencloaks. I need my Afghulis, and they need to be out ofKhezal's reach, so we need to find a path for them."

"Let me talk to Omyela," Bethina said. "Giving her a chance to trick aTuranian is better than offering her a sack of gold."

The Lady of the Mists was a clean maiden, but either magick or goodfortune made her first union all pleasure and no pain. Or so it seemed toMuhbaras.

Of his own pleasure, he could not speak, for there were no words in anytongue he knew that would do it justice. Indeed, he wondered if there werewords in any of the tongues of men.

Presently she conjured a pool of sparkling water into the middle of thechamber, and led Muhbaras to it. They bathed old passion from them, butkindled new, and soon were locked together on the sand at the edge of thepool.

"I am beginning to believe this is all real," Muhbaras said. He rested ahand on a part of the Lady of whose reality he had become wholly certain.

She imprisoned his hand with hers, then kissed his fingers. "It is allreal. What I had put in the chamber was the stuff of earth, as is my magic.It is easier to transform what exists into something else, that to createsomething out of nothing."

It occurred to Muhbaras that the transformation might as easily go theother way. The Lady seemed to read his thoughts.

"No. You will be gone from here before the cham-her is as it was. Youneed have no fear of waking up alone amid balding furs and reekinghides."

"Do I need to fear walking out of this chamber in the garb I wore atbirth?"

"If I do not, why should you? We will not be cold." She proved herwarmth all over again, and it was some while before Muhbaras couldagain think about clothes.

Again, it seemed that his thoughts were written upon his face. Suddenlyhe was garbed as he had been, although he thought his blades had beenpolished and sharpened since he last saw them.

"You see? All that I hold in my memory, I can restore as needed. But issoldier's garb needed now? I think not." She snapped her fingers, andMuhbaras was unclothed again.

The Lady grinned. "I am not done with you, nor I think you with me.Come to me, captain. If it was in me to beg, I would. But with you, I willnever have to."

As Muhbaras took the Lady of the Mists in his arms again, he could not

help wishing that this might be true. The Lady might have come to himwith blood on her hands that the gods themselves could not wash off. Yethe would not begrudge her what little happiness he might be able to giveher.

Fourteen

Old Omyela might be hardly larger than a ten-year-old Cimmerian girl,with a black-eyed gaze that neither Conan nor anyone else could meet forlong. She was also as shrewd as any descendant of so many generations ofhard-living desert folk could be, however, and she seemed to know herspells.

One of those spells covered the escape of Conan's new company—all theAfghulis and twenty-five Ekinari besides Bethina and Omyela, with a fewspare mounts "acquired" from the Greencloaks. It was the simplest ofspells, sending into the middle of the Greencloak camp an image ofBethina dancing. While everyone, including the sentries, had their eyesfixed on the play of supple limbs and veils that revealed more than theyhid, the Afghulis slipped out of the camp.

Carrying their gear, they swiftly reached their meeting with the Ekinari,who had mounts for all. Then, mounted and with night enfolding thedesert to hide their tracks, Conan's new band rode north.

They had a good notion of where to start looking for the Valley of theMists, and it was a good three days' ride to the north. Conan set apunishing pace that made even the Afghulis sweat, and feared only thatthe two women might not be able to endure.

Neither gave trouble. Bethina was young and fit, and decades of desertsun had baked Omyela to the color and toughness of old leather.

"I remember when a woman who could not ride from dawn to darkthree days running was not considered fit to bear children," Omyela said,scoffing at Bethina's concern. "Take care of yourself, girl. Wear away yourstrength, and when that Cimmerian wants you, there'll be nothing of youthere!" She gave a bawdy chuckle, and Bethina's bronzed skin turned evendarker.

Conan walked silently away, and nearly ran into Farad.

"Maidens should not ride on such death-quests," the Afghuli said softly.

Conan laughed. "Maidens you admire, you mean. I had not heard thatthe Afghuli lasses huddled around the cookfires."

"I admire that wild desert girl?" Farad said indignantly.

"Yes," Conan said. "Or was it someone else who stood there gapingwhile she danced, so that Omyela could send the image to the camp? A flycould have crawled into your mouth and made a nest in your back teeth,for all you noticed."

Farad twined the fingers of both hands in his beard and glared atConan. "My chief, the day I cannot tell when a beautiful woman dances, itwill be the day I am dead or at least blind. Last night I was neither."

Conan laughed, and chaffed Farad with a few light words to cool hisindignation. He wondered if he should mention Farad's admiration toBethina, lest the girl hurt him by chance.

Then he decided on silence. He faced enough tasks for three men on thislast part of the journey, and he would not add playing matchmaker tothem!

Captain Khezal was neither surprised nor alarmed at waking to findConan gone, and the Afghulis and Ekinari along with him. He had, indeed,rather hoped that the Cimmerian would take swift action, and be longgone before any reinforcements to the Green-cloaks arrived from theSouth or West.

Such reinforcements were likely to include some captain more seniorthan Khezal. Not all such captains would be inclined to send Conan's headin a bag of salt back to Aghrapur, but too many were. Even those whowished to be honest might become otherwise, for fear of what spies mightsay. Fear of Yezdigerd's spies had run through Turan like a plague foryears now, and showed no signs of abating.

Khezal might be putting his own head in danger, of course. But hewould rather not keep it on his shoulders if he could not do so honorably.Conan was thrusting his head into a land of the most sinister sort ofmagic, courting damnation even more than death. For the sake of a friendfacing such dangers, one's own death was nothing much to fear.

So Khezal sent messengers south and west, and also waited for themessengers returning from the party he had trailing Conan.

They rode close to the mountains, for concealment from the desert andfor water from the mountain springs. It was as well that the Greencloaksdid not ride with them, for no tribe in these lands was friendly to Turan.Instead, the wind seemed to bear word of their coming to tribesmen in

search of adventure, and these riders came in until Conan led a band ofmore than fifty.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, they camped at the mouth of aravine known for its endlessly flowing springs. Farad led the first watch upthe ravine, and Conan did the same with the second when Farad's menreturned. Bethina went with Conan, striding with sturdy litheness over therugged ground. She was clad from crown to toe, but the breeze pressedcertain of her garments against the ripe curves Conan remembered so wellfrom the night she danced.

They led the way up the ravine, and Conan's hill-eating stride soon lefteveryone but Bethina behind. They found themselves climbing onto a shelfof rock, from which the far end of the ravine rose straight into the sky, avertical crack taller than a tall tree.

From the crack in the rock, water flowed, to form an iridescent bluepool just beyond the shelf. Below the shelf, water flowed out and down, toform the stream that the men were using to fill their water bags.

Conan saw that the rocks on either side of the pool sparkled withgemlike bright bits, and a soft cushion of blue lichen overgrew one ofthem. He wanted to sit down, pull off his boots, and bathe his feet in waterthat looked so much like the pools where he'd swum as a boy in Cimmeria.

Bethina had already given in to the same impulse. She dandled her feetin the water, wincing at its chill, then kicked and splashed like a baby.

Suddenly she stood up and began unlacing her cloak. "I think that pool'sdeep enough to swim in."

Conan frowned. "Mortally cold, though."

"Is hill blood so weak, then? Or are you so clean that you need no bath?"She wrinkled her nose. "No, it cannot be that. So it must be a weakness inCimmerians. The world must know of this. I shall— yaaahh!"

She broke off with a happy shout as Conan closed the distance to her,lifted her, and tossed her into the pool. It was deep enough to submergeher completely; when she bobbed to the surface she was spluttering andgasping from the cold.

Then she laughed, dove again, and came up at Conan's feet. Watersluiced over him, and as Bethina thrashed and splashed, more doused himall the way up to his waist.

"Well, Conan?"

Conan glared in mock-fury, sat down, and started pulling off his boots.

Then he stopped, for Bethina's tunic was now floating in the pool, and ashe watched, her trousers bobbed up to join it. Then her head reappeared,hair sleeked down over bare shoulders, and she stepped out of the water.Silver drops ran down between her breasts and over every other curve, andConan's arms were rising to meet her even as she came into them.

They used the bed of lichen well, and for how long, Conan never knew.Even the thought of danger could not enter his mind for a while.

Somewhere in Bethina's embrace, he chuckled.

"Do I amuse you, Conan?"

"That, and much else. But I was thinking. You are a whole woman now,true?"

"Well—"

"You're lacking nothing any woman has, and you've more than most. Orisn't that what your folk call 'whole'?"

"For me—it might be best—if I bore a child. Prove that the line of myfather is safe with me. To a man of good blood, of course, and a friend tothe tribe."

Conan slapped Bethina smartly on her bare rump. "Woman, you won'tfind me unwilling, and I hope your folk call me friend. But having a babein your belly is no way to go questing!"

"I will remember that. But surely, Conan, we will not be here in themountains that long?"

"Maybe, maybe not. But if you hope too much, ten Turanian crowns to abrass bit you'll find yourself trying to have the babe somewhere in ablizzard-buried cave in the mountains next winter!"

She shuddered at the thought, and the Cimmerian held her close. Hehoped she could not read in his touch his innermost thought, which wasthat anyone here by next winter would not be among the living. Perhapsnot among the lawfully dead, if the Lady of the Mists had half the powerscredited to her by rumor, but surely not among the living.

"More wine, my Lady?" Muhbaras said. He sat on the edge of themagical pool in their meeting chamber, legs dangling, holding out the jug.

The Lady of the Mists nodded, extending one bare white arm. She worenothing, and Muhbaras no more. Now they did not disrobe by magic whenshe transformed the chamber, but disrobed each other, touching andcaressing as they went.

"You would make a fine servant, Muhbaras," the Lady said, as thegolden wine flowed into her cup. "Perhaps I should bind you to me so thatyou will be here forever."

Muhbaras could not keep his hands from tightening on the jug. It tilted,spilling a few drops of wine into the water. The Lady looked at thewidening gold circle and laughed.

"Does that frighten you, Muhbaras?"

"Yes, my Lady. It does. I have lived all my life as my own man, free todecide for myself and for those placed under me. I would not willingly giveit up."

He smiled. "Besides, my lady, I think you have found me skilled enoughas a free man, not to wish to exchange me for a slave." He slipped into thewater and swiftly embraced the Lady.

She struggled, or at least pretended to do so. But Muhbaras's lips wereon hers, and even when she poured her wine over his head, he did not takethem away. At last she went limp in his arms—then grappled him like amating she-leopard with a great cry of triumph and delight.

Presently they lay in the pavilion, as a soft scented magical breeze driedtheir bare skins. The Lady shook her head. "I would never change you,Muh-baras. This I pledge, by—"

Muhbaras did not recognize the names of half the gods (if they weregods) that the Lady invoked. He was glad of this. The Lady had delved fartoo deep into ancient and forbidden knowledge that he had no wish toshare.

"I also call them to witness that if I changed you, I would be sorry forit."

"Sorrow has not seemed part of you."

The Lady of the Mists turned her face away. With her head muffled in apillow, she said, "I have not allowed sorrow near me in many years. Notsince I came to womanhood and my powers at the same time."

Muhbaras did not have to wait long for the story. He heard it gaspedout between barely muffled sobs. Long before it was done, he layspoon-fashion with the Lady, her head against his chest, cradling her as hewould have done a hurt child.

Horror seethed within him, at the tale. Revenge would have heated hisblood, except that the men re-sponsible were all long dead. The Lady hadtaken that vengeance into her own hands, and done thorough work.

So how an Aquilonian noble's daughter came to be the Lady of theMists was answered. What was not answered was another, far moreurgent question (at least in Muhbaras's eyes).

How was a common man to endure long enough as consort to asorceress, to heal her from her wounds and make her whole as bothwoman and witch?

Conan's band hugged the foot of the mountains for the next two days.Once more they rode by night to hide themselves from any humanwatchers who might be lurking either among the rocks or among thedunes.

"To be sure, the Lady's magic may have given her a clear sight of ussince we fought the loosefeet," Omyela said cheerfully. "And if it has, shehas doubtless prepared for us hospitality that we will not be able to refuse.But she may find me a more awkward guest than she anticipated whenshe sent the invitations."

The thought of being watched through magic was one of the few thingsin the world that could make the Cimmerian uneasy. However, he hadgone on this quest knowing that there was magic at the end of it, and toomany followed him to let the uneasiness show.

"I've been the same kind of guest to a good few witches and wizards,"Conan said. "Spells against steel do not always go the way the spellcasterwants it, if the steel's in good hands."

"Just as long as you do not think I am one whom you can cut downbefore I can bespell you," Omyela said. She was smiling, but the smile didnot reach her eyes, and Conan heard no warmth in her voice.

"You need not fear me even trying," he said evenly. "Not unless you giveme cause."

They rode on in silence.

In the heart of the peak at the far end of the Valley of the Mists, therewas discontent.

That is applying a term suited for living creatures, even intelligent ones,to something that was neither living nor dead, neither intelligent normindless. It merely was .

But it could feed, and when the essence of living beings was offered to it,it did so in a way that might be called eager. Feeding had become a habit,

and it had gained the notion that this would continue if it obeyed certaincommands that seemed to come at regular intervals.

Now the commands no longer came as often. Nor did the feedings. Thediscontent grew.

There also grew what might be called an idea. If the life essences nolonger came to the entity, could it not go to them?

The problem was where .

It began to seem that the commands had come from a particular place.It gave cause for the entity to wonder.

If it found the place where the commands had come from, would it thenbe able to feed?

At least this gave some direction to the search— and the entity belowthe mountain had begun to be able to distinguish what had direction fromwhat did not.

The Lady of the Mists had labored and sacrificed for years to bring theMist to this point, but when the Mist finally reached it, she did not knowuntil it was much too late.

Fifteen

The mountains lunged skyward and dawn was tinting the distantsnowcaps as Conan reined in. His sense for danger told him that theyshould ride on, and not make camp here. His other senses told him thatthe danger was being seen if they rode on in daylight.

He dismounted and studied the ground, seeking a sign of hostilepresence to justify his unease. The ground was too hard in most places toshow tracks, and during the night the wind had blown hard, with nearly asandstorm's strength. On the softer ground any tracks left before dawnwould have long since been obliterated.

Voices broke into Conan's study of the ground, coming up behind him.

"—old crone's fancies," came in Farad's voice.

"Old crone? Is that what you see when you look at me?" That could onlybe Omyela.

"With my eyes, yes. We Afghulis are not much for magic."

"Hmmp. We call that 'stone-brained' among my folk. I see astone-brained young warrior who loves his chief's woman."

Only Farad's trying to choke back an angry retort broke the ensuingsilence. That, and Conan's swift feet as he hurried back to the others.

"What Bethina is to me, and I to her, and what Farad may be towardboth of us, is not for spreading on the desert wind like camel-stink,"Conan said sharply. He did not look at either Omyela or Farad, but sawout of the corner of his eye that both took the chiding to heart.

"Now, Omyela, you had some—what Farad called by a rude name—tospeak of to me? True?"

The old woman inclined her head with almost regal grace. "That is so,Cimmerian. My 'fancies' tell me where lies the Valley of the Mists."

That silenced even Farad, and the two men listened with great attentionas Omyela explained. Conan had no more love for sorcery than ever, but inhis years of adventuring, magic-wielders had sometimes been more helpthan hindrance. Omyela was looking to be one such.

He hoped she was. The Kezankian Mountains were full of valleys, someknown only to the mountain folk who lived in or about them, others hardlyvisited at all by mortal men. It would take longer than they could afford,climbing among the peaks and peering into each valley—and perhapslearning that they had found the Valley of the Mists when its witch-Ladyhurled her magic at them.

"You say you have sensed what is both alive and dead, and can guide usto it?" Conan said, by way of prodding Omyela into brevity.

"Yes, with some help," Omyela said. "One of those who goes to the valleymust be a woman. What I will be using is woman's magic."

Farad and Conan looked at each other, then at Omyela. Neither couldimagine her climbing up mountains and down into valleys where botharmed warriors and potent spells awaited. Neither could doubt that thewoman she meant to send against those perils was Bethina.

Fortunately for the peace of the quest, neither of them said a wordagainst it. They knew Bethina—and a moment later she appeared frombehind a rock, as if Omyela had conjured her out of the air.

Farad and Conan could only exchange looks again, and then listen asOmyela finished her explanation of how to fight the menace of the Valleyof the Mists.

"I will wear one amulet, Bethina the other. All that either of us knows,the other will know too. My power can pass into Bethina, so if she is withyou, it will be as if I were."

"You say that you have sensed the Mist, and from that sensing, youknow where the Valley lies," Conan said. "What of the Mist sensing you,and where you are?"

"The Mist does not yet have that power by itself," Omyela said—rathercomplacently, Conan thought. He hoped Omyela would not be numberedamong those adepts of sorcery who had trusted old knowledge too muchwhen they faced new foes. That was a bad habit among the breed, he'ddiscovered, and one reason why they were often no match for a well-taughtwarrior.

"The Lady of the Mists has that power, if she chooses to wield it,"Omyela continued. "But I have not sensed her using it. One wonders if herpower weakens, or if she has grown lazy in guarding herself and hervalley."

"The more she has, the better for us," Farad said. "A witch is a foe I'llgladly take when her back is turned."

"Ah, that may be your hope," Omyela said. "But it should not be. Theless the Lady of the Mists binds her creation, the more it will seek powerfor itself. The more power it finds, the wider it can spread, feeding as itcomes. If it grows enough, the Mist will be the doom of all who face it."

Silence followed, broken only by the piping of the wind among distantpeaks, and by a bird cry that to Conan's ears did not sound quite natural.

Conan divided his band before they plunged into the Kezankians on thetrail of the Valley of the Mists. This was not much to his liking—dividingyour strength just before you closed with the enemy was no way to gainvictory. But if one could neither take old Omyela into the high mountainsnor safely leave her alone, what else was a man to do?

Nor was it much to the liking of the men left behind. Tales of the valley'swarrior women had grown with the retelling, like mushrooms in the dark,and every man dreamed of grappling a Maiden of the Mists.

Conan came down on those dreams with a heavy boot. "If they'recoming at you with swords, use yours and not some other weapon, oryou'll be vulture-fodder. I won't sing a death-song for you, either. I've nobreath to waste on fools.

"If they don't fight, they're lawful prisoners and they'll have lawfultreatment from any man who wants to keep his head on his shoulders."

The Cimmerian's demeanor was so ferocious that the men immediatelyswore potent oaths to do as he wished. He doubted all of them swore

without some inward doubts, but that was why his Afghulis were goingwith him. They sometimes wondered at Cimmerian ways, but they alwaysobeyed the chief to whom they were blood-sworn. They would cheerfullyskewer any of Bethina's tribesfolk who went against their chief'scommand.

Surprisingly, Omyela herself was none too pleased at a division of theband intended to protect her. "I can deal with any foe likely to come uponme quite well without you keeping a dozen good warriors idling," shesnapped.

"How?" he asked. "By making yourself invisible?"

"It is within my powers to do that," Omyela said, complacently. "Also,guards cannot protect me if the Lady of the Mists strikes at me with hermagic. They can only be fresh prey for her."

"Yes, but if you are hiding from loosefeet, can you also fight the Lady?How many spells can you cast at once, Omyela?"

"Enough."

"I think not, lady."

"Who are you to tell me the extent of my powers?"

"Someone who has come alive out of battles with a good many sorcerersbecause they thought they could do everything. The one thing they couldnot do allowed me to escape, sometimes to kill them into the bargain.

"You've spoken of this Mist being the doom of us all. If you can't fight it,another dozen or score or ten score men in the mountains won't help. Ifyou can—"

Omyela held up a hand. "Indeed, I see that Bethina sings the praises ofyour wisdom with good reason. Also other aspects of you. Have youthought of wedding her?"

A dagger thrust at his ribs could hardly have surprised the Cimmerianmore. "I have not."

"Well that you should do so, Cimmerian. If she had a consort of yourprowess in battle, those who follow her brother would swiftly leave hisbanners. Her father would have a son worthy of him, and in time theEkinari a chief worthy of them."

"I will think on it, Omyela. But first, let all of us come back down themountains alive."

"There is that, to be sure."

Conan left Omyela hoping that she would not remember thisconversation, but fearing otherwise. She had weighty reasons behind her,but the Cimmerian had his own as well.

Plainly, the first was Farad's regard for Bethina and hers for him.Wedding her would be taking another man's woman, and a surer way tomake enemies, neither gods nor men had yet devised.

The second was the Turanian price on Conan's head. Yezdigerd wouldnever tolerate seeing a desert tribe so close to his borders under thechieftainship of an enemy of Turan.

The last was Doiran's followers. Not all of them would turn their coats,nor would all of the rest flee. Too many would remain within stabbingdistance of the new chief for Conan ever to take easy sleep—or for Bethinaand her kin to do so, either.

It would have been less perilous to stay in Afghulistan, and there was anend to the matter!

The first person the Mist fed on of its own will was a half-wittedgirl—born so, not turned into one of the Lady's creatures by magic. Shehad the wits to wield a small knife, and to avoid falling from high places,so she was often sent up the sides of the valley to cut brush for thecookfires.

She had done her work so well in days gone by that she had cleared thebrush from all the lower slopes in the area given to her. So she climbedhigher than ever, holding her knife between her teeth—her single garmenthad no belt or pockets.

She finally ended her climb on a ledge where several bushes weregrowing. She cut all the branches that were thin enough for her knife, thenlooked around for more before she bundled them up to carry back downthe hill.

In a crack in the rock she saw what looked like another bush growing,with yellow berries and thin branches that would cut easily. She had toreach very far in to even touch the branches, and she soon realized thatshe would not in truth be able to cut them easily.

She was trying to decide what to do next, and meanwhile reaching inover and over again, when her fingers touched something cold. It felt ascold as ice or springwater, but it was not solid or liquid. It felt like a windblowing on her fingers.

Then her fingers began to hurt. The pain grew so fierce that she cried

out. She tried to pull her hand out, to see if her fingers were all right. Butthe crack in the rock seemed to be holding not just her hand now, but herwhole arm.

Then the cold covered the arm, and after it came more pain. This timeshe screamed loud enough to raise echoes, and pulled with all herstrength, trying to free herself.

It was useless. No one heard her screams, thinking they were bird cries.She could not pull free, and a moment later the Mist found a blood vesseland darted up through it to the girl's brain. The life went out of her eyes,although she did not fall, but remained sitting while her body slowlyshrank in on itself, turning blue, until nothing remained but a trifle ofpowder to fall to the ground or blow away on the breeze.

The girl was the first. She would not be the last.

Conan and Bethina were once again well ahead of the rest of their band.But there was no water in sight, let alone pools for bathing or beds oflichen for taking their pleasure.

Still, Conan could not help admiring her lithe form, well displayed insnug trousers and short coat, as she clambered up the rocks beside him.Bethina was not for him, and indeed no woman could be, as long as he wasa rover—and that might mean he would die unwed, even if he lived longenough that his old playmates in Cimmeria were gray-bearded grandsires.

But there were women with whom he could live in as much peace asman and woman could expect, and Bethina was of that breed.

A sound Conan could not identify made him halt and raise a hand forsilence. Bethina was as good a scout as any the Cimmerian had seen in aregular host, ready to obey his signals and growing more skilled each dayin hiding herself. It did not hurt that her clothes were a grayish-brownthat blended with the rocks so that if she lay still, one could almost treadon her without seeing her.

The sound came again. It was the chink of metal on stone, not a soundnatural to these mountains or any other. Conan's band was almost on theborder of the land where the Valley of the Mist's Khorajan allies and theirbandit mercenaries prowled. A battle now could give warning enough toraise defenses that neither Conan's blade nor Omyela's magic couldbreach.

Conan crouched, listening intently, trying to put a direction to thesound. It seemed that it might be from behind him, but that was unlikely.

Those immediately behind him were his Afghulis, more cat-footed onrocky slopes than even the Cimmerian himself.

He decided to go to ground himself and wait for the noisemaker toreveal himself. If it was an enemy trying to slip up on the Cimmerianthrough the Afghulis, he had only moments to live. Conan would not haveto draw a blade before his followers dealt with the man—and in the deadlysilence that helped make the Afghulis such respected foes and their ruggedhomeland free of foreign enemies in most years.

Silence came to the mountainside. Conan would have sworn that eventhe birds and the winds were silent. He could hear his own breathing and,just barely, Bethina's. But of he who had made that revealing noise, therewas no further sign.

All at once there was more noise, and from high above. Conan shiftedhis position to look uphill, and saw a pack train ambling across the slope.Conan counted twelve pack mules and six guards on foot, all with bowsand short swords of no particular origin— the sort of weapons amercenary might pick up in the bazaars of fifty different cities.

But their garb was not that of any tribe, and in this part of themountains that made them enemies.

Their distance and their bows also made them enemies well out ofreach. Climbing up against their archery would be slow work and bringquick death to many of those who tried it, besides giving the alarm. Conanbraced himself against a rock and slowly rose to his feet, invisible fromabove but hopefully not so from below.

He was raising his arms in the signal for stillness and silence when aman leapt from the rocks to his right. Conan had one moment to recognizethe man whom he'd punished for being slow to swear obedience.

Then the man hurled himself at the Cimmerian, dagger in hand, andConan was fighting for his life.

The man was slighter and shorter than he, but had surprise on his sideand the strength and agility of a leopard, making him no mean foe evenfor one of the Cimmerian's prowess.

The man's rush drove Conan back against the rock, and his headcracked hard against it. This slowed his drawing his own blade, so that theman slashed at his wrist and made it fall. Conan hammered a fist into theman's face, or at least so aimed it, but the man bobbed aside and the blowonly struck his shoulder.

That was still enough to knock him back, but he sprang up again like a

child's weighted toy. Now Bethina closed from Conan's left, and hefrantically gestured for her to stand clear. It was not in him to shout yet,although he feared that a deaf man in the pack train could already haveheard the fight.

The man stamped a foot on Conan's blade, at the same time pivoting onthe foot and kicking at the Cimmerian's groin. Conan rode with the kick,taking it on his hip, and picked up his sword, which gave him the edge inreach.

But that also opened the distance between him and his opponent.Before the Cimmerian could strike again, the man leapt at Bethina.

"Doiran is chief!" the man screamed, and the dagger flashed down.

It never reached Bethina, and only partly because she fell and rolled outfrom under its slash. It still would have torn her open, except that anotherdagger suddenly blossomed in the back of the man's neck. He stiffened, hisown point wavered, blood gushed from his mouth, and he fell almost ontop of Bethina.

Farad stepped out of the rocks, a second dagger held by the point in hishand and a grim look on his face. His face grew grimmer still as he sawBethina, lying still and blood-spattered almost within reach of thewould-be assassin.

Then he stopped in midstride, as Bethina leaped to her feet and Conanlaughed. A moment later Farad's face was that of a man being strangledand thoroughly enjoying the process, as Bethina wrapped her arms aroundhim and clung to him so tightly that her feet barely touched the ground.

"Did you devise this scheme to dazzle this young lady?" Conan growled,but with a grin.

Farad looked as if he'd been slapped, and Bethina glared at theCimmerian.

"This is the first I knew of either man's presence, and much good yoursdid me!" Then she shook her head. "Forgive me, Conan. This—I did notthink we might have my brother's spies among us."

"I did," Farad said, regaining his voice. "But I could not be sure. If Isimply made the man disappear some night, his tribesfolk would take itill. So I trusted to my tracking skills, to follow the man until he did somemischief."

"It would not have hurt if you'd followed him a trifle closer," Conan said,holding up his bloody left wrist. "You might have stopped him before hedid this, or even made a sound. There was a pack train uphill, and if

they're not alert now, I'm a Stygian!"

Farad quickly begged his chief's pardon and went to see what the packtrain had done. Not much to Conan's surprise, the Afghuli reported thatthey had dashed off fast enough for at least two mules to fall.

They were barely in sight to the west, and not slackening their speed.

"As well that they had orders to guard the mules and not fight," Conansaid, "or we'd have had arrows about our ears and maybe in other placesbefore this. But the alarm will be up."

"Should I go up and pick over the fallen mules? They may tell ussomething—"

"And what's to tell you that the guards haven't left an archer behind justto pick off the curious? We can't lose you, Farad. We need you to lead inmy place if the next would-be assassin aims his steel better."

Farad and Bethina looked at one another, then Farad cleared his throat."My chief. Suppose that we pretend this one did aim well? If they have notseen you alive after the fight, how can they know you are not dead?"

"Yes," Bethina added. "We can make a great mourning for you, andpretend to build a cairn."

"I don't mind that," Conan said, "as long as you don't actually put meunder it alive. But—do I smell a ruse?"

Farad nodded. "You said yourself that the alarm is now given. But ifthey think we are defeated, despairing, about to withdraw, they will be lessalert. They may even come down to attack us, on our own ground."

"Farad," Conan said. "When we are done with misty Ladies and theirvalleys, we shall return to Afghulistan. There I will support you for chief ofthe whole people!"

"If you do, you go alone," Bethina snapped. "I will not perch on amountain like a rock-ape—"

"You say this of Afghulistan, when your people roam the desert fromwell to well, not staying under a roof three nights out of the year?"

"Better than have the roofs fall in on us when—"

By then Conan had decided to take himself off out of hearing of thelovers' first quarrel. He hoped they would make peace soon; he did notneed them at daggers drawn with each other while carrying out the ruse.

But why in the name of all the gods had Bethina taken him , if she'd hadher eye on Farad all along as much as he had on her? It was not in Conan

to regret a delightful tumble with a fine young woman, but blood-feudshad begun over less.

Fortunately, the Afghuli was a proven warrior and old enough to be awiser head to Bethina, as well as in fettle to remind her that she was awoman any time she wished it. She could have chosen worse. She would have chosen worse, had she set herself wholly on the Cimmerian.

And it still made precious little sense, unless one accepted the truth thatthe ways of women were hardly more predictable than those of the gods.At least women were human, and few priests claimed to understand them,but otherwise the difference sometimes seemed too small for a man'sdiscerning.

Muhbaras was at sword practice when the messenger arrived.

He listened to the man, while turning his gaze from the darkeningslopes of the mountain to the gate of the valley. The men posted there hadreported that since early morning the Maidens would not talk to them,and seemed pale and drawn, as with a fever. One man said that he hadheard inhuman cries from beyond the gate, and maintained this in theface of the scoffing of his comrades.

Muhbaras wished that he had no duties toward his men, or at leastnone that would keep him from the Lady's side. Then he put the wishaway. He was no sorcerer, and however well wielded, few swords availedmuch against magic gone awry. Also, the Lady had her pride, and wouldnot thank him for seeing her weak.

Moreover, if the messenger spoke the truth, Muhbaras was neededmore than ever in the outer world, Muhbaras and all his men.

"If I took you a half-glass's ride down the path, you'd see where they'remaking the cairn," the messenger concluded. "They've their chief all laidout proper, with his grave goods and sword, and enough stones ready topile on him to keep out lions let alone wolves. Most likely they'll lay himdown at dawn, and build the cairn during the day. That's the way of thetribes, leastways the ones I know."

The messenger was a seasoned veteran, one of the handful remaining,and had likely forgotten more about the people of these mountains thanMuhbaras had known when he came to them. He would trust the man foranything he had seen with his own eyes, and they had seen a good deal.

"Very well," Muhbaras said. "You shall have a proper reward for thiswork, and soon."

"Tonight, Captain, or I might not be living to spend it."

Muhbaras wondered if the soldier had heard the tales of fear within thevalley. He did not dare ask.

Then the man grinned. "No, it's just that I reckon you're about takingus down to clean those tribesfolk off our mountain. Chancy work in thedark, even if they've lost their chief. There's a Maiden I've wanted to gift amite, for her kindness to me, and surely you wouldn't be quarreling with aman's doing that, would you?"

Muhbaras laughed and drew two silver coins from his purse. "I wouldnot, and here's your reward. Save something for the fighting, though."

"Aye, Captain, I'll do that, and you take your own advice too."

Left alone, Muhbaras considered various schemes, but knew time wasshort. He decided that nothing would serve better than a straightforwardnight attack with every man he could spare. That would have to beeveryone, as he had too few seasoned warriors among the bandits andunfledged recruits to divide his forces.

That also meant putting the pay chests and other valuables in a safeplace. The only man who could be spared for that was Ermik, which wasrather like trusting a mouse to the care of a serpent. But the serpent mightnot be hungry. The oncoming raiders surely would be.

Then he wrote three short letters. One was for his superiors in Khoraja.It accepted all blame, if such there was, and absolved his men. Then hewrote one for the Maidens, which he left unsealed. Even Ermik should beable to read his message that the Maidens should be doubly watchfultonight and for some nights to come, with human foes closer to the valleythan for some years.

His last letter, he sealed as tightly as he could.

It was not a letter that schoolchildren would be made to recite in futureyears. It was not a letter that anyone except the woman who read it wouldlong remember. It was merely the letter of a man to the woman he loves,before he goes out to battle, hoping to return in triumph but asking her toremember him if his luck is out.

However, in all the years that such letters had been written, there couldnot have been many written by a warrior to a sorceress.

In her innermost chamber, where not even her serving Maidens wereadmitted, the Lady awoke and threw off her blankets. She had come to

find it easier to add blankets to her bed, rather than use her magic to keepthe chamber warm at all times.

She had not abandoned sleeping unclothed, however, as her mirrorshowed her. For a moment she wished the mirror were Muhbaras'seyes—the desire she read in them was so beautiful to see, so unlike whatshe had expected from men for so long, that it aroused her almost asmuch as his caresses.

Then she drew on a chamber robe, rinsed the sleep from her mouth,and sat down at her scrying table. She had not sat there for some days,although the wards she had placed on it earlier should have been sufficientto warn her of anything amiss. Not that there ever had been, except in thedays when she thought ruling the Maidens like a tyrant would help hercause, but still…

Her hands tingled the moment they touched the table, and a dozenshades of blueness swirled in the glass, until it was like peering down intoa bottomless well of luminous water. At the very bottom, she sensed theMist she had brought into being and fed for so long.

Until recent days, that is. She knew what Muh-baras thought of thosesacrifices, even when they were of useless mouths and made cleanly,without pain. She could not help but know, after lying in his arms so manytimes.

She also could not help what had gone before, but she could keep itfrom happening again. There had to be a way of constraining the Mist, sothat it would at least be harmless. Meanwhile, it had not been strongenough to feed by itself the last time she offered life essences to it. A moonor two of fasting would do the Mist no harm.

Now her questing spell touched the Mist—before she had expected,indeed. She strengthened the touch—and it was as if the Mist pushed back , as Muhbaras sometimes did when they mock-wrestled to a love-fall…

But this was not a friendly push. It was like a man swatting at a fly, withgreat strength. More strength than the Mist should have. As muchstrength as it would have had, if it had been fed regularly all these pastdays while she loved Muhbaras.

The Lady withdrew the questing spell and rose from the table.Something was amiss, and she intended to seek answers (at least at first)without casting any more spells.

Sixteen

The Mist did not distinguish between friend and enemy. Those weredistinctions too subtle for it.

But it could tell what lived from what did not live. It could also tell whatlife it could feed on, and what life it could not.

In the time since it first fed of its own will, it had also learned to tellthose who helped it to feed from those who would hinder it. It saw thesecond kind, not as enemies, but as more food.

Waiting for a night attack by a formidable foe, high in thin coldmountain air, after a long day of marching and fighting and with awounded wrist throbbing none too gently, is no man's idea of pleasure.Not even the most hardened of Cimmerian warriors.

Not even Conan's.

However, he had not expected this quest to bring much pleasure. If heand his Afghulis left Turan with a whole skin and some of their jewels,that would be enough.

Oh, and to be sure, it would be as well if this Lady of the Mists and hermagical menaces were also put down. But Conan was beginning to wonderif the Lady was only a tale.

Here they were in her mountains, and according to Omyela (speakingthrough Bethina), so close to the valley that a child could have walked thedistance in half a morning. All they had seen were humans, and not themost formidable sort of humans either. Even Omyela could not say forcertain that the Lady's magic was still potent—although Conan knew thatsome kinds of spells were shields against detection. Dangerous ones, moreoften than not, commanded by potent sorcerers—and the Lady was one, ifshe was anything at all, Conan stretched cramped muscles. He lay on hisbier, playing the "dead chief by night as he had by day. Just after the lightvanished, he'd slipped off the bier to relieve himself and snatchbean-bread and sausage from his pack, while Farad took his place. Then itwas back to playing his own corpse, while a string of "mourners" marchedaround the bier, making the din demanded by custom.

Conan only hoped that they didn't keep the sentries from hearing thenoise of the approaching attack.

A lull in the mourning, and then soft footsteps approaching. He hadheard them before, and recognized Bethina's pace. Before she had been

with Farad, but now she was alone.

The footsteps halted. Conan heard soft breathing, smelled warm woman(not recently bathed, but then who among them had for some days?), thenfelt tears fall on his face.

"Ha, lass," he whispered. "I'm not dead yet."

"I know. I would weep for you, though, if you were."

"Even though you're going to wed Farad?"

"Even so."

"Well, then, be sure that he tells you about his three wives andseventeen children back in Afghuli-stan. He—"

Conan felt a cold sharp point at his throat. "Conan, you are jesting, areyou not?"

It took some effort to command his voice. "Yes. Farad has no wife, andnot much in Afghulistan to draw him back. What he says, you canbelieve."

"I am grateful." Suddenly the point was withdrawn and warm arms fellaround his neck. "I am also frightened. When will they come?"

"Easy there, Bethina. I know it's hard, waiting for an enemy you know isout there to spring on you. But we're on our own ground. They'restumbling around in the dark, wondering if they will have any warning orif they're about to fall into a trap.

"Believe me, I've done both, and we have the easier work tonight."

"I can almost believe you. I will believe you, if you hold me."

"Farad—"

"I told him where I was going, when he went out to the sentries. Heblessed me."

"Not me?" Conan scoffed. "The ungrateful hound! I bring him from aflea-ridden hut to the embraces of—"

"Hssst!" Bethina said, in a very different manner. Conan put his armaround her but was silent.

Then they both heard it—a high, wailing cry that might have been anabandoned babe. But it was many times too loud and seemed to comefrom both the rock of the mountains and the stars in the sky at once.

Muhbaras heard the sound, too, and his first thought was that one of

the raiders' sentries was blowing a whistle to give the alarm. Then itswelled until it was almost painful to hear, and he ceased to believe that itcould be natural.

What he wanted to believe was that the Lady of the Mists was calling onher powers to aid him. What he feared was that magic was on the marchtonight, without the Lady's leave.

He did not know to what god he could lawfully pray, for the victory ofone who had delved into matters forbidden by those same gods. He alsowondered if he could pray for his own victory, seeing that he was bound bythe most ancient of human ties to that same delver into the forbidden.

Since Muhbaras did not know how to pray, he did not do so. Instead hedevoted all his attention to keeping on his feet as he led his men downacross the scree-strewn slope. A stone turning under somebody's feet coulddo worse than give the alarm. It could tumble a man, so that he tookothers off their feet until the whole raiding party slid downhill like a livingavalanche, to end up helpless amid the rubble while their enemies cuttheir throats.

Mountains were no place for moving fast at night, and here the banditshad the advantage over their lowlander comrades. They knew ground wassupposed to be rubble-strewn and slanting, and their feet found safe pathswithout demanding direction from their wits or senses.

Muhbaras's eyes had long since accustomed themselves to the darkness,although his night-sight was not of the keenest. He saw that he himselfwas running almost straight at the dead chief's bier, and that some of themen on his flanks were well ahead of him.

He could almost be grateful to the terrible cry in the night. It had to bedrawing all his enemies' attention, and completely drowning out thefootfalls of his men. They would strike by surprise, and that alone mightgive them the edge.

Muhbaras put out of his mind the thought that the magic unloosed inthe night might make meaningless the difference between victor andvanquished. It was disloyal to his Lady, it might unman him, and it mighteven be untrue.

Conan waited until the last moment of the attackers' approach. He hadplenty of warning, not only from the sentries (who gave ground before theonrush without engaging) but from the "mourners" around him.

Among them was Bethina, who was keeping her courage and her wits

about her for all that she was plainly fearful of what might befall Farad outon the sentry line. She moaned and wailed quite convincingly, and inbetween the moans gave Conan the numbers of the enemy. When thenumber reached fifty and grew no higher, Conan heaved a gusty sigh.

That was odds of no more than two to one, and ensured a battle ratherthan a massacre. But he trusted his men; when the fight was over thereshould be little between them and the Valley of the Mists.

Little of human contriving, that is.

Conan moved enough to see the sentries pelting past the archersclimbing on the piled stones, to give themselves clear shots over the headsof their friends into the ranks of their foes. The clatter of onrushing feet onstones was now louder than the wailing in the sky.

Then the first of the enemy burst out of the night. A lean man in raggedrobes, he leapt clean over Conan's bier, to meet Bethina's dagger full in hischest.

His death-cry made all other sounds seem like a hush. Conan rolled offthe other side of the bier, drawing both dagger and broadsword in a singlemotion as he came to his feet. Both blades found living flesh as they weredrawn, and two enemies crumpled before Conan had taken three stepsfrom the bier.

A third man stared at the Cimmerian, gibbering like a bee-stung ape.

"Your pardon for coming back from the dead, but I had work to do,"Conan said. His broadsword licked out and the man's head lolled on hisshoulders. He fell backward into the path of a fourth man, who was agileenough to leap aside but not enough so to escape the downswing ofConan's sword.

It was only a flesh wound to the man's left arm, and he wielded thetulwar in his right hand with no loss of speed or skill. Conan feinted withhis dagger to draw the man into a furious slash that put him briefly offbalance and in reach of the broadsword. The broadsword ended the fight,opening the man's chest, across half his ribs and down to his heart andlungs.

Conan had now slain four men in hardly more time than it would havetaken to draw that many breaths. His rising from the dead had notfrightened as many enemies witless as he had hoped, but it had left himwell inside their ranks.

A squarely built man with a grizzled beard now came at Conan. Theman had nearly the Cimmerian's reach and much of his strength, but not

his speed. Conan could not use all his swiftness of foot, eye, and hand onthis rough ground with enemies lurking in every direction.

So he and the bearded man went at it for a good long while for such afight, which is to say all of a minute or two. They also fought unhinderedby either friends or foes, which might have been chivalry but was morelikely that the two wove about them a web of flying steel such that noprudent man dared draw close.

The bearded man drew Conan's blood twice, and the Cimmerianconsidered that this quest was giving him more scars than usual. Then hisopponent made a downward cut that was just a trifle too predictable, andConan caught the man's blade with his dagger.

Pushing back hard, the Cimmerian locked the other's blade betweenthem, then brought his broadsword about in a sweeping stroke.

It struck flat-bladed; Conan wanted a prisoner. Too much that they hadnot expected was abroad tonight, and this man had to know more thanConan did! Besides, the man was too good an opponent to kill withoutgood cause.

The blow knocked the man's helmet awry and staggered him withoutstunning him. He lurched back, clearing his blade and drawing a short hillknife from his belt. Conan brought a knee up into the man's groin andslammed the hilt of his broadsword into the other's jaw.

Those two blows were almost enough. The man still thrust his knifeweakly at Conan, touching the Cimmerian's scarred chest. Then he reeledand fell, his steel falling from limp hands.

Conan stepped back from his fallen opponent and looked around. Thearchers from the stone pile were now at work, and arrows whistled byclose enough to be heard over the cry of the night. The cries when theystruck living flesh were even louder; Conan counted half a dozen writhingor still forms within spear-throw.

Now to see to his prisoner, and hope that no one tried to kill him ortrample on the man while he was doing that.

Conan had just gripped the man's ankles when the cry in the nightdoubled, then redoubled, until all the world seemed to be one terriblewailing that seemed to signal the death of gods or even of the universeitself.

In the valley, the Lady of the Mists was running for the first time insome years. She was relieved to discover that her wind and limbs were still

sound enough to let her make good speed.

Or perhaps she owed her speed to being sensibly clad, with stout shoesand a tunic and trousers borrowed from one of the servants. They were notthe best fit, but she was conscious as never before how keeping the chillwind from her skin and the stones of the paths from her bare feet allowedher to make better time on her journey.

Of course, it would be well to doff all her garments as usual when itcame time to wield her magic. Meanwhile, though, no one would take herfor the Lady of the Mists or perhaps even for a woman, as the garmentswere large enough to alter her shape. Even in the uncanny light the Mistwas pouring out into the Valley, her staff might also look like a shepherd'scrook or a bearer's walking stick.

Besides, it would take sharp and untroubled wits to even think of theLady's rushing about so meanly clad, let alone be trying to pierce thedisguise of everyone who passed. She did not doubt that there were sharpwits among the folk in the valley, not all of whom were foolish either bynature or her creation. But she doubted that they would be untroubled.

She herself was not untroubled, and as she strode along the path towardthe Cave of the Mists, she recited old cantrips to soothe herself. The Misthad begun to feed of its own volition, and that terrible blue light spreadingout into the valley was frightening both those who knew what it meantand those who did not. The more fearful the valley dwellers, the more theywould run about like headless fowl without taking thought for their ownsafety.

Not that they could easily procure it. Men and women were going to dietonight, and each death would feed a life essence into the Mist, making itstronger to seek out the next victim. (She would not use the word"sacrifice" tonight, and had begun to think that she never should have.)

At least they could run toward the mouth of the valley. The Mist wasbound to the magic in the rocks of the valley, the magic going back to thetime of Acheron. It could not leave the valley unless it devoured manymore life essences than it had found so far.

And unless she was no longer there to contend with it.

What her magic had wrought, it could undo. This might not earn her akinder judgment from anyone except Muhbaras, who was—as he was, andshe would not try to find words for it. She was no poet either. In time,when they had lived together in the outside world, she a soldier's lady, he asoldier of Khoraja, one of them might find such words.

That time would not come tonight.

She needed to be closer to the Eye of the Mist to wield the needful spellswith appropriate power, so she hastened her pace. As she moved, shecalled to the minds of everyone she passed, and hoped that the callreached beyond the range of her eyes.

Flee the valley. Flee the valley. Flee to the valley, and beyond it. Thevalley is death. Outside lies hope.

She repeated this, and one or two folk on the path turned and staredabout them, as if seeking the source of the message that seemed to betouching their minds without touching their ears. She almost laughed.That was another way of remaining disguised—a call to the mind did notmean using one's all-too-recognizable voice.

Conan was now backed against the pile of stones. This left him all thefighting room he needed to front and flanks. Not all of the archers atop thepile still lived, but both living and dead had wrought havoc in the enemy'sranks. They were coming at Conan and the remaining defenders on theground with barely half their strength remaining fighting-fit.

Bethina crouched behind Farad and Conan, her hand gripping herdagger but her eyes seeing nothing. She had not uttered any of Omyela'smessages since battle was joined, but her consciousness was clearlyelsewhere.

Conan hoped that no one saw Bethina as the defender's weak point andhurled themselves on her. That would end in red ruin for the attackers,but perhaps also in Bethina's doom.

The Cimmerian had met a good many women he'd mourn less thanBethina, altogether apart from the bond with Omyela. What was loose inthe valley looked very apt to doom all in its path, without Omyela's help.

Most of the folk of the Valley of the Mists who yet lived were fleeing evenbefore the Lady bade them do so. One man trotted industriously in thesame direction as the Lady.

It was Ermik, and he could not have moved as swiftly as he did had hestill carried the gold entrusted to him by Muhbaras. He had left it in a safeplace, hidden even from the Maidens, who in any case were likely to soonbe fleeing as swiftly as the rest, too swiftly to search odd caves.

There was some danger in following the Lady as he was, even had she

not been also hurrying toward the unleashed magic. But that way must liethe Lady's treasure, dwarfing the petty sums from the pay chest. Also, thatway lay learning more about the Lady's magic than Muhbaras had, for allthe time he'd spent swiving her.

With gold, Ermik could buy his way free of Khoraja. With knowledge, hecould buy a higher place in Khorajan service. It would be his tales of theValley of the Mists that would be believed, not the captain's. Swiftly hewould rise, and high enough that he would never again need to obeyhirelings like Muhbaras.

Still, he patted the hilt of his dagger as he moved. It held a chaos stone,or one that had been sold to him as such, for a price that would make himseek blood if it did not in truth confuse any spell into whose radius it wasthrown.

If he was alive after such a mischance. Ermik had a good spy'sself-command, and animal courage. But he could not keep that uglythought from his mind, or keep from feeling the night wind blow chill onhis spine.

The attack that Conan had feared came. It began with a flight ofarrows, striking with the power of Tu-ranian bows but mercifully illaimed. One went through Bethina's hair, another gouged Farad's shoulder.The Afghuli slapped at the wound as if it were an insect bite, andbrandished his tulwar.

"Come along, dead men who think they yet live. Come along and meetFarad and Conan and their comrades. We will cure you of your sillynotion!"

He added a few singularly foul obscenities in Iranistani. Those who didnot understand his words understood his tone, and it seemed thatmadmen came howling out of the night at Bethina's defenders.

In the heart of the Mist, something that might be called a will began togrow. It was a will to seek paths through the rock, following the traces ofold magic that it could touch by itself. It did not need more life essences tostrengthen itself, if it could do that.

The Mist ceased to be a creature of the air and became a creature of thedepths of the earth. But in the heart of the incandescent blue where theEye of the Mist had been, a crimson core began to glow.

The attack on Bethina and her defenders began as a collision andcontinued as a brawl. Too many men were jammed into too small a spaceto let anyone use art or even craftsmanship in the fighting.

That at once gave the advantage to the defenders. Conan could use theweapons nature gave him as fiercely and effectively as the man-made oneswhose ways he had learned. He had never studied the barehanded (and-footed) fighting arts of Khitai, so perhaps one of the great masters ofthose arts might have been a match for the Cimmerian. But the Khitanwould have needed luck as well as skill, and only the greatest of masterswould have stood any chance of walking away from a bout with Conan.

Conan slammed his sword-weighted hand into the side of one man'sneck. He punched another in the ribs so hard that he felt ribs crack underthe blow, even through boiled-leather armor. He butted a third man underthe chin, snapping his head back so savagely that the neck snapped like adry branch.

Meanwhile Farad was doing much the same, with a little assistancefrom weapons that he had more room to wield. At the outermost fringes ofhis senses, Conan could hear still other comrades, but they might havebeen in another world for all that he could tell of what they were doing.

They had to have done well, because suddenly it was too much for theattackers. Darkness and emptiness gaped before Conan, although notsilence—the ground was littered with the crippled and dying, some alreadycrying out as the pain-blunting shock of their wounds wore away.

Conan watched the attackers retreating uphill, far scantier in numbersthan when they came, and losing more men to the archers before theyvanished. Then he looked around for Bethina.

He saw her a moment later, sprawled atop the prostrate form of theprisoner Conan had taken earlier. He sprang toward her, then heard awelcome, healthy oath as he accidentally trod on her outstretched foot.

"Your pardon, lady."

"I should think so. I stabbed one fellow with my dagger, but he had somuch muscle, the blade stayed in him. So when the bearded one startedwaking up, all I could do was jump on top of him."

That seemed to have done well enough; the man's nose was a bloodymess from being slammed into the rocky ground. But he was stillbreathing, and indeed started to groan as Conan lifted Bethina off him.

"I can take a few of the men up and keep those fellows on the move,"Farad said.

Conan shook his head. "We don't divide our strength on unknownground. Those fellows could rally and cut you to pieces. Besides, we needto protect Bethina. When was the last time you heard from Omyela?"

Bethina looked blank, then slowed her breathing to open her mind tothe other woman's message.

Conan stared at the sky. Was it his fancy, or was a crimson tintbeginning to mingle with the blue glow in the sky?

The Lady of the Mists had come as close as she dared to the Eye. Anycloser and she might find the ground under her feet crumbling as the Mistfed on the traces of the spells of long-dead Acheronian sorcerers, likeworms feeding on the bones of long-dead animals.

It was Acheron's magic that had brought the Mist to terrible Me. Nowit would be the same magic that drove it back into the nighted gulfs fromwhich she had drawn it, so that the Valley of the Mists might be a saneand safe abode for common men and women.

She was leaving it, and she prayed she would leave it with Muhbaras.But she would not fail to leave it cleaner than she had made it.

She could not bring back the dead. She would not even ask theirforgiveness, for what she had done was beyond that. She hoped forhappiness in this life, before she faced the anger of her victims in another.Meanwhile, she would do what she could to keep the number of the deadfrom growing any further.

It would have to be a death-elemental. She had conjured one before, abeing from the very darkest heart of Acheron's sinister magic. But thathad been a small one, fit only to take a single human life. It had been weakand easy to control.

Now she needed one so powerful that it held enough of the essence ofdeath to slay the Mist. That which had fed on life essences would nowconsume pure death, and from that consuming, die.

The Lady of the Mists remqved her garments and stood wind-clad aswas best for such potent magic. This close to the Mist, it was hard toimagine anyone being able to strike at her even if they saw and recognizedher.

The syllables in the Secret Tongue of Acheron ran through her mind,and as she raised her staff over her head, they began to roll off her tongue.

Muhbaras had just rallied the half or less of his men who remainedwhen a wild-eyed figure stumbled into their rear.

It was one of the Maidens, clad only in her sword and rags of garments.She was bleeding from a dozen scratches and three greater wounds, andreeling with exhaustion, pain, loss of blood, and stark terror that made hereyes seem windows into Hell.

"They are mad in there," she gasped. "Mad. The Mist marches, and theyhave all run mad. They are trying to get out. They say the Lady told them.We do not know where she is."

"Have you no way to reach her?"

"No. I—yes, that is true. We do not." Muhbaras wanted to shake senseor at least coherence into the woman. Instead he lowered his voice.

"If we come up and help, can you keep order?"

"Men within the valley! This cannot be—" 'There have been men notonly within the valley but within its Maidens and even the Lady of itsMists!" Muhbaras roared. His voice would have started a landslide hadthere been any loose rocks about.

The Maiden cringed. Then she nodded. "Good," Muhbaras concluded."And when we have helped you, you will help us against the raiders whoare enemies to both of us."

He hoped he was not overestimating the prowess of the Maidens in areal battle against a plainly formidable foe. He did not want to simplythrow their lives away; the Lady would not thank him for that (and howwonderful it was, to think that she would be so concerned).

But he would disdain no help and no allies, as this night Muhbarasneeded all of both that the gods would send him!

The rosy crimson hue was brighter and also melting into the blue sothat the sky was turning an eye-searing shade of purple.

"It looks like a gigantic bed of violets, diseased and then set aflame,"Bethina murmured. Or was it Omyela? The two women were talking againacross the hillside, and Conan would have given a chest of silver to learnwhat they were saying that did not reach bodily ears.

Farad pretended to spew. Bethina grinned. "Men are so delicate ofstomach. It is as well that women bear the babes. Men would die of themorning sickness even before the babe reached its term."

Farad stared. "You are not—"

"Plagues take you," Bethina said. "No. You need not fear for the blood ofany sons you may see from me."

"I would not quarrel with any son of the Cimmerian's blood," Faradsaid, musingly. "Of course, I would still have to kill Conan before I couldraise the lad with a clear conscience—ekkkhh!" he broke off, as Bethinakicked him smartly in the shin.

Then the young woman stiffened, and when she spoke, her voice hadOmyela's gravity and even some of its cracked quality.

"You must go up to the gate to the valley. Follow the men you defeated.They will lead you. They will not be your enemies, for what is unleashedwithin the valley is the enemy to all."

Farad looked at the Cimmerian. "A child of five could understand that.But he'd be too young to be frightened witless!"

"What, an Afghuli fearful? A warrior of the folk who use sharp stones—"

"Cimmerian, I may kill you after this even if my sons are all of my owngetting. Or will you save your breath for climbing?"

Ermik came upon the Lady of the Mists quite suddenly. He had nowarning and she showed no sign of hearing or seeing him.

Indeed, it was unlikely that she could sense anything in the normalworld. She was clad for casting a spell, her staff was glowing with a lightthat seemed black , if such a thing could be, and her eyes glowed golden.

Very lovely, she was, too, for all that she was frightening. Ermik nolonger wondered at Muhbaras's desire for her, and rather regretted thathe would have to put an end to the Lady without amusing himself withthat beauty as well.

However, a wise man struck quickly when dealing with a witch. Ermikstrode forward, tossed the dagger with the chaos stone in the hilt, caughtit by the point, and threw it. He threw it directly at the Lady, so that if thechaos stone did not do its work, it still might do enough physical harm tobreak the Lady's concentration.

There are moments in the creation of even the most potent spell by themost adept sorcerer, when a child sneezing at the wrong moment canbring everything to ruin. The chaos stone was not worth a tenth of whatErmik had paid for it, but it was more potent than that child's sneeze, andit entered the sphere of the Lady's spell at the worst possible moment.

The point of the dagger also entered the Lady's flesh, and drove through

to a lung. The combination of chaos, broken concentration, and painsnapped her control over the death-elemental. It raved and shrieked in hermind, clutching at her with incorporeal tendrils that produced still morevery corporeal pain.

The Lady died in agony of both mind and body. As she died, thedeath-elemental leaped free of all control. In the moments before its leap,its aura had stunned Ermik, and he lay so completely senseless that adeath-elemental in haste could have mistaken him for one already dead.

This one was in haste, to flee the area where the Lady's magic lingeredand had much the same effect on it as a smoke-filled room on a humanbeing with delicate lungs. As it fled it screamed in triumph, and thisscream reached human ears already half-deaf with the terror of the Mist.

Where panic had not reigned in the valley, it reigned now.

Seventeen

It went much against Conan's instinctive suspicion of sorcery for him toclimb the slope, let alone urge his men on. But there was no other road tothe secret of the Valley of the Mists, and for the moment that road layundefended.

The Cimmerian still did not lead a wild, scrambling rush up themountain. Those wounded who were coming along had time to bind theirwounds. Every surviving archer also collected as many arrows as he couldfrom the quivers of the fallen, both friend and foe.

Conan himself stepped aside to speak with the prisoner, who gave hisname as Bamshir.

"If I leave you unbound, will you come with us as a guide?"

Bamshir looked ready to spit on the ground, or perhaps in Conan's face.Then he shrugged.

"My life is forfeit anyhow."

"Not certainly. Besides, your men may need you to lead them, and we need all the help we can find against what is loose in the valley. If that isnot the greatest enemy now, may I be gelded!"

Bamshir frowned. "You may well be right."

"I am right. And you've been living cheek by jowl with the Lady'swizardry long enough to know that without my telling you!"

After that Bamshir acceded, and Conan was even willing to give himback his eating knife. But he kept the prisoner-guide away from Bethina.Indeed, the man showed no easy mind about approaching the youngwoman, and made a gesture of aversion when he thought Conan was notlooking.

Bethina seemed to be in a trance, and it was a miracle that she couldput one foot in front of another in the darkness over this ground withoutfalling. But her body seemed to work now without the guidance of a mindaltogether bound up with Omyela's.

She would not be stabbing anyone until the battle of spellcasting wasover; that was plain to see. Fortunately Farad could see that for himself,and what anyone could do to guard the woman, he would do.

Muhbaras's men reached the gate to the valley gasping and winded, butin fair order. He thought some might have fled, but of those who hadremained with him, all still bore their weapons. As well, seeing that theirfighting was more likely to be against hu-man foes—or humans somaddened by fear that they could not tell friend from foe.

The gate opened swiftly, cranked by two menservants with the beardlessfaces of eunuchs and stark terror written all over those faces. A Maidenstood by them, keeping them at their posts as she remained at hers,although her own face told of fear commanded by brute force of will.

Muhbaras did not blame any of the three. He was here for his Lady, hismen, and his honor—in that order. Khoraja was but a name that wouldhave had no power to prevent his flight but for the other three bonds thathad brought him here in this dire hour.

The men filed in through the gate behind Muhbaras. Some calledbawdy greetings to the Maiden, or stared around these once-forbiddenprecincts.

All lightness of heart vanished, however, as they marched down the pathand saw the far end of the cleft in the rock. There the passage from thegate gave on the valley itself, and there purple light blazed like the forge ofsome mad blacksmith of the gods.

Purple light, and worse. Muhbaras saw (or at least thought he saw, andwould ask no other for their opinion) patches of sky where a blacknessthat was not the night seemed to eat the light.

He could hope that this was the magic by which the Lady sought tosubdue her own creation. Hope, perhaps pray, but no more.

"Pair off," he shouted. "Stay together, and don't let anyone get betweenyou and your mate! Any Maidens who come up, if they're armed, havethem pair off and fall into line with us. Anyone armed who is not aMaiden, disarm them."

"Then what?" someone called. "Send them out or keep them here?"

"If they won't stay, send them out. When the valley is empty, we'll takeits folk down to find water and shelter until the Lady has matters inhand."

Some of the laughter that drew was bawdy, but not much of itunfriendly. So far Muhbaras still commanded his men's loyalty.

Lady, for all our sakes, put things to rights before my men flee likeyour people.

Even as they moved uphill, Conan kept his men reined in.

"Run on a slope like this, and you're likely to fall on your face. Ifsomebody doesn't skewer you before you get up, you'll roll back down andknock out what brains you have!"

Farad added his mite to the profane cajoling, and the men mounted theslope in a compact formation, with archers well out to the flanks wherethey had clear shooting. Thus far they had no targets, and Conan would bequite happy if there was no more fighting on sloping ground. His Afghuliswere as at home on it as he was, but Bethina's tribesfolk were accustomedto the more level desert.

Nonetheless, they and their young chieftess kept pace with theCimmerian. Bethina no longer seemed entranced by her magical bondwith Omyela, but she strode on in silence, looking neither to right or left.

She spoke first when Conan called for a short halt to realign theformation and let everyone take a few unhurried breaths.

"Omyela and I were talking."

"So I judged," Conan said. "Is it permitted to speak of what she said?"

"Oh, it is permitted, or at least I will take her permission for granted.But you do not want to hear all of it. Omyela can no more utter two wordsof meaning without ten words of speech than any other old woman orsorcerer."

Conan grimaced in mock-horror. "And she is both. How does she everspeak clearly?"

"Not often," Bethina said. "But I can tell you what she meant. She saysthere is death and life battling in the valley."

"How does that make the valley different from any other place where lifeexists? Death comes to every living thing, or it seems to me."

"Yes, but—how to say it?"

"Plainly and shortly. We must move on soon."

"Do you wish to wed me also, so you may command me?"

"Do you wish two husbands?"

"If they were you and Farad—"

"I'm flattered. We're in haste. Speak."

"Death and life each has—being—in the valley. Left alone, they willbetween them destroy it and go on to seek destruction elsewhere. Broughttogether, they will destroy each other."

"So all we need is to introduce the death being to the life being andstand well clear?"

"I suppose so. She did not explain."

"Just as long as she does it when it's needed," Conan said. "Otherwisethere'll be no one alive here to listen to her explanation."

Bethina heard those words without flinching, which was more thansome of the men did.

Muhbaras's men barely had time to order their slender ranks before thefleeing Maidens were on them. No, that did an injustice to some of theMaidens, and indeed some of the other women, Muhbaras decided. Theywere retreating , not fleeing, trying to stay ahead of the mob of fugitivesbut keeping themselves in fair order, and those with weapons holding onto them.

The mob behind was another matter. At intervals the sky itself seemedto howl like a living thing gone mad, and in those moments Muhbaraswanted to clap his hands over his ears. He could not have heard the criesof the fugitives if they'd been shouting in his ear—and he kept his distancefrom them with great care.

They were of all ages from babes to graybeards and of both sexes, aswell as more than a few fresh eunuchs. Most seemed to be wearing whatthey could snatch up when the urge to flee struck them, which was oftenlittle or nothing. Few had anything more than their scanty garments, or at

most a loaf of flat-bread or a bunch of onions.

Feeding these without the croplands of the valley is going to be noeasy task, my Lady. But they are yours, and for your sake I will do whatI must.

Hardly any of the fugitives were the misshapen half-men, conjured intodeformed existence by the Lady to do the harshest work before their timecame to yield up their life essences. Whether the Mist had overtaken them,their true human neighbors slain them, or their own weakness broughtthem down, they would not live out the night.

Muhbaras could not find it in his heart to regret their passing, and onlyhoped their deaths would be for the most part merciful.

Less agreeable was the sight of several bands of well-thewed and armedmen or eunuchs. These swaggered along, and Muhbaras knew that theywould prey like jackals on the fugitives if they were given the slightestchance. He had encountered their breed before, and found no answer to itsave sharp orders enforced by sharper steel.

Muhbaras stepped forward to meet the first three.

"Halt and disarm!" he said, not quite shouting but raising his voice loudenough to be heard over the fugitives' gabble. The sky screamed at thatmoment, so he had to repeat the command.

"Who are you to be giving orders?" the biggest man snapped.

"Captain Muhbaras of the Khorajan service," was the reply.

The man drew his sword. Muhbaras drew his faster. Its point was at theman's throat before the other's blade could rise into fighting position.

The man stared at the point just barely pricking his skin and swallowed."Ah—can I have my blade back afterward?"

"When we're—" Another howl from the sky, and something vast andblack seemed to fly low overhead, like a cloud that was a window into theAbyss and cried with the voice of a mad dragon.

"That's a Maiden's sword!" screamed a voice from behind Muhbaras.He turned, taking his eye off the man, who jerked his blade up and nearlylaid Muhbaras's cheek open.

Then Muhbaras was trying to fight at the same time the man and awild-eyed Maiden determined to avenge her unknown comrade. Thefugitives had broken into a run now, all who could move that fast, andboth the unarmed and the armed were streaming past, jostling thefighters without regard to the flying steel.

In the confusion the Maiden tried to watch her back, Muhbaras, andthe man at the same time. She could not quite contrive this, and the manlaid open the side of her neck with a wild slash. The next momentMuhbaras pierced him through the throat, and he fell beside the woman.

Muhbaras looked at the fallen Maiden, cursed everything save the Ladyherself, and even allowed himself a few unkind thoughts about her. Hewould not be able to forget this night of madness, and it would always liebetween them even when they lay in each other's arms.

Then the greatest cry of all rose from the valley, as if the mountainsthemselves were in mortal agony, likewise the stars, the air, the water, andevery living thing within reach of the unleashed magic. It was the sound ofmadness, and Muhbaras saw that on the faces of his men and the Maidenswho had stood thus far.

He closed his eyes, to shut out the nightmare vision. When he openedthem he still lived, and only the echoes of that cry remained pealing aboutthe valley.

But he was alone, except for the dead and those too spent to run.

Alone, with no further duties to anyone but the Lady. Alone, and free togo to her, to hold her, to carry her out of this antechamber of Hell.

Muhbaras had a dim notion that perhaps there was some madness inhim, too, that he thought this. His men still lived, likewise the Maidensand the fugitives. He could do more for them than for the Lady, if she yetlived.

It was the thought of her death that finally turned Muhbaras's stepstoward the valley. Nothing remained in his mind but that thought. If shewas dead, he must find her body before anyone else.

Sword in hand, Captain Muhbaras stumbled down into the Valley of theMists, along the path that the Lady herself had followed only a short whilebefore.

The gate to the valley stood open when Conan led his companionstoward it. The gateway was also vomiting people, wide-eyed, ragged, somewounded, all staggering with exhaustion and half-witless with fear.

Conan did not even try to stop the outpouring with his handful of men.Nor did he really wish to. If the Lady of the Mists was soon to be a queenwithout subjects, many of her teeth would be drawn without theCimmerian's having to labor at it.

Conan was proud of the victories he had wrought with his strength andskill. He was not so proud of them that he would refuse a victory handedto him by fate.

There were armed men and some armed women among the fleeingpeople. Some of the armed men had the look of those who had picked upfallen weapons with an eye to carving from others' misery what fortunethey could. Others, the women included, wore armor and had about themthe air of an army in retreat.

"Those women are the Maidens of the Lady," Bamshir said, low-voiced."The armored men are Muhbaras's. I know some of them."

"Do you see Muhbaras?"

"I have not yet. He would be the last to flee. Even if the men did, hehimself would go forward to seek the Lady." Bamshir added, in a stilllower voice, "He loved her, it is known. And I think she loved him back."

Conan tried not to gape. The idea of loving a sorceress chilled him tothe marrow. The idea of being loved by one—well, he had survived theaffections of many sorts of dangerous women, but any man who playedlove games with a witch loved danger even more than the Cimmerian did.

"Then let us seek your captain, and perhaps when we find him, we shallfind the Lady."

Conan led the way, and Farad, Bethina, and Bamshir followed almostshoulder to shoulder through the gateway.

Muhbaras was vaguely aware that the ground under his feet wasshaking. He did not slow, or even break stride. He was running like a manwho will stop when his heart does, who will keep running in midair if theground drops away beneath him, fall, and land running still.

He might never have had soldiers, or anything else behind him to thinkof. All his thoughts roved the valley ahead, seeking his Lady.

Do you yet live? Send me a sign, if you do!

He knew that he was crying out for that sign like a child for a secondbowl of porridge. He did not care. Before the Lady, before his love for her,he had no more shame.

Not so vaguely, he became aware that the sky was turning solid andbeginning to whirl. He also saw that the solidity took the form of two vastspirals, like whirlwinds of unimaginable proportions. One was purple, theother was a black that seemed to both repel and swallow light at once.

They leaped skyward from different parts of the valley, and leanedtoward one another like partners in an obscene dance. Then they drewback, swayed, leaned forward again, and repeated this over and overagain.

Either they were silent now, or Muhbaras's ears had ceased to acceptnew sounds. No, that was not quite so. When the ground before himcracked wide so that he had to leap or be swallowed up, he heard the shrillsundering of rock and the thud of his boots landing on the far side.

Then he heard only his own rasping breath as he ran on.

Conan watched the spirals in the sky, one blazing purple and the otherthe black of a demon's nightmares, and knew that the unleashed magicwas approaching its climax. He knew this without a word from Bethina,who indeed could not have spoken a word to save Conan's life or perhapsher own.

Bowed backward in a way that had to be torturing her spine, she staredwide-eyed into the sky. She shook her head so that her hair flew in cloudsabout her, and raised her arms, hands clasped together.

Those clasped hands began to glow—with a light that was all colors andno colors. Conan could neither bear to look at it nor turn his head to lookaway. Farad muttered curses in Afghuli, while Bamshir knelt and cried outwhat sounded like orthodox prayers to Mitra.

It had to be comforting to believe in the kind of god who answeredprayers, or at least told his priests that he would answer them. It was acomfort Conan had always been denied.

Instead of praying, he drew his sword. Steel in hand was the way he hadalways sworn death would find him, and he would not be forsworn now.

The nimbus around Bethina's hands turned distinctly green. At thesame time, Conan felt the ground underfoot begin to shake, and saw thewalls of the valley swaying like trees in a high wind.

In another moment the earth itself would be sundered and the valley fallin on itself, obliterating everything and everyone within. Conan knew briefpleasure that at least some of the valley's folk would survive the ruin oftheir home—although how long they would survive starvation, disease, andthe windy mountain slopes was another matter.

Then the green nimbus around Bethina's hands became a spear of greenfire, hurtling upward. It struck the black spiral, encompassing it in afugitive green glow and a shower of green sparks that seemed to rain down

from the stars themselves.

It also drove the black spiral violently forward, until it struck the purpleone.

Such a sound filled the valley as Conan had never heard before andhoped never to hear again. He thought he would gladly be deaf as an adderfor the rest of his days if the other choice was to hear that sound again. Healso wondered if he might indeed be deaf, whether he wished it or not.

But the sound did not blind his eyes. Afterward he never talked aboutwhat he saw, even when he was telling tales of his most exotic adventuresto drinking companions who had to listen to the King of Aquilonia. He didnot believe what he saw then, and did not expect anyone else to believe itafterward.

He saw cliffs that had been leaning forward draw back as if pushed bygiant hands. He saw chasms large enough to swallow houses suddenlyclose, or fill with steam and churning water. He saw boulders the size ofhorses plunge from on high, then float down to land with all the harshnessof soap bubbles. He saw patches of ground that had been shaking likebeaten carpets suddenly blossom with flowers and long grass.

He saw much else that he carried to his grave with him, and so didthose with him—and most of them did the same as the Cimmerian.

Then suddenly no one saw anything, because all light left the valley. Allsound did likewise—or perhaps it was only stunned ears being unable todetect more subtle sounds than the fall of mountains or the creation ofnew life.

In time, Conan heard the plash of new streams, the rattle of the lastloose stones finding a resting place, the sigh of breezes now free to blownaturally. He even heard, far off, the bray of a donkey that had somehowsurvived the upheaval.

He laughed. "Bamshir, I was going to ask you to guide us. But I think wecan wait here until daylight. Your captain and his Lady will not be thebetter for our falling downhill in the dark."

"The gods made you too sensible to be a hero, Cimmerian," Faradchaffed.

"I sometimes wonder what the gods were about when they made me,"Conan said. "If they ever tell me the truth, I'll spread the word. Meanwhile,my friend, see to Bethina, and set the sentries. For now, we wait."

Muhbaras reached his Lady just as the ground seemed to turn to jellyunder his feet. His final dash to where she lay turned into an undignifiedsprawl on his face.

He rose bruised and dusty, to see Ermik cowering back against the cliff.The spy was the color of old chalk, and not all of it was the dust on hisskin.

"I—I wanted to stop her," Ermik stammered. "I tried to stop her. Shewas conjuring—she was casting a spell to—I used my dagger. The daggerwith the chaos stone. It should have stopped her. I wanted to stop her. Iwanted to—"

Muhbaras neither could nor would hear any more of this litany. Hewalked to the Lady's body. She lay as if in sleep, save for the death-rictusof her lovely mouth and a gaping dagger wound in her back. It must havereached her lung, but there was no sign of blood from her mouth.

The captain knelt and drew out the dagger. It was Ermik's—herecognized the silver mounting and the "chaos stone."

Muhbaras flung the dagger point-first into the ground. It stuck there,quivering even when the ground did not. Then he walked slowly towardthe spy. He had not thought he had much strength left after his long run,but now it flowed into him as if from the earth itself—or perhaps theLady's spirit.

Ermik did not know that he was about to die until Muhbaras seized himby the throat. In the next moment he knew nothing at all, becauseMuhbaras smashed him back against the rock hard enough to crack hisskull.

That was not the end, because Muhbaras kept pounding Ermik's headagainst the rock and twisting his throat until he heard rocks falling downaround him. He heard only three, because the fourth struck him on theshoulder and knocked him down, and the fifth struck him in the stomachas he lay on his back on the ground.

He did not hear the climax of the battle of spells, or anything else for along time.

Conan and his men kept watch until daylight, except for Farad, whokept watch over Bethina. She was either dead or in a sleep that feigneddeath, and with her senseless, there was no asking Omyela for the truth.

Dawn came to the valley, and consciousness to Bethina at about thesame time, and the silence of the dawn was broken by triumphant Afghuli

cries. Bamshir and his men joined in with a will—they knew they owedtheir lives to the women as much as they did to Conan.

Conan, Bamshir, and a band of fighters that included a few Maidensmarched down into the valley as soon as they could travel safely. Even theMaidens who had spent much time there seemed bemused at the changes,and wanted to stop and gape so long that Conan needed brisk words tomove them along.

They did not find the Lady until the sun was nearly overhead. They alsofound Muhbaras, lying beside the Lady, an arm thrown protectively acrossher. Furrows in the ground showed that the Khorajan had crawled to theLady from where he had first fallen. How he had done this with two deathwounds upon him, Conan did not expect even the gods to know.

He knelt by Muhbaras, sponging his blood-caked lips and listening tothe man's last words.

"I—Ermik killed her. That—loosed—what you fought. Are—are the mensafe?"

"All who reached the gate yet live, Captain," Bamshir said.

"Good." Muhbaras was silent for so long that Conan thought he haddied. But he rolled over, groaning at the pain and effort this caused him,and rested his head upon the Lady's breast.

"Look at her. Look at those eyes. Did you ever see such beautiful goldeneyes?"

Those were Muhbaras's last words. His own eyes closed by themselves,so Conan had no need to touch him. Instead he knelt, looking down at theLady.

Golden eyes? The Lady of the Mist's eyes were larger than most, butthey were a rich brown flecked with green. Eyes the color of a forest pool,deep and rich, that a man could drown in. That a man had drownedin—and called himself happy in doing so.

At least Conan now understood how a common man could love asorceress. One did not love the sorceress. One found the woman inside thesorceress, and loved her.

Conan stood up. The Maidens had drawn apart, to keen and wail fortheir Lady. From the way some of the soldiers were looking at them,Conan wondered if they were Maidens in truth as well as in name—orwould so remain long, if they were now.

He turned to Bamshir. "We will bury them together, if that does not

offend you."

"Anything else would offend the captain's spirit," the other said. "Alsothe Lady's—and I think the valley will be the better for it, if her spiritsleeps content."

Epilogue

Conan rode west again, but this time he was alone. As he lookedeastward, to where only the highest peaks of the Kezankian Mountainspierced the horizon, he recalled memories of this latest adventure.

The last two in particular made him smile, and more warmly than wasthe Cimmerian's custom.

He remembered his final conversation with Bethina. Deciding that sheneither could nor would return to her tribe, she had vowed to stay in theValley of the Mists and become chieftess of a new tribe.

An odd mixture, that tribe would be—the survivors of Khorajansoldiers, tribesmen, Afghulis, Maidens, and the peasants. Not a bad one,though—all of them were proven hardy and industrious, and able to fightwhen necessary.

"Well enough that while I would still invite you to stay," Bethina said, "Icannot imagine that we need you. Nor would you be happy, which is why Ichose Farad even though you were my first man. In your soul you are aloosefoot, although an honest one."

Conan had laughed then. "Ask in Zamboula sometime, and they will tellyou how honest Conan the Cimmerian was. Only do not tell them that youare my friend, or they may arrest you on suspicion of receiving stolengoods!"

Then there was the night Conan had used those thief's skills to regainhis jewels from Khezal. After all, a man was entitled to a trifle of rewardfor a mission of such service to Turan, as well as traveling expenses to hisnext destination.

The reinforcements were up by then, with an array of elegant youngcaptains who swore mighty oaths of frustration when they learned that thevictory had been gained without them. It would have been as much as theCimmerian's life was worth to remain in the camp long, and Khezal hadnot dared even meet him.

But Sergeant Barak had told Conan which tent was now Khezal's, and

when Conan slipped into it that night, it was most scantily guarded.Moreover, the purse contained all the jewels but three, as well as a handfulof gold coins and a silver-chased dagger that had not been there before.

Khezal still knew what he was about. Conan hoped that this continued.Yezdigerd might be more formidable a foe with men like Khezal servinghim, but without such wise heads, he would be a rampaging monsterequal to the Lady's Mists of Doom.

Conan laughed again, in his usual harsh way, at the idea of his wishingYezdigered any kind of good fortune. Then he prodded his mount to acanter. It was time to be off to Koth and whatever fortune its brewingwars might bring him.

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