“He will save us.”
Basrakan intoned the last word, and his eyes opened wide with awe at the rush of strength through his veins. He felt as if a single bound would take him the length of the room. He drew a deep breath and thought he could detect each separate odor in the room, sharp and distinct. So this was what it was to be bonded with the drake.
On the table the glow faded from the rubies, from the lines of power drawn there in virgins’ blood and powdered bone and substances too dreadful for mortal men to speak their names. But the glow that permeated Basrakan’s very marrow did not fade. Triumph painted his face.
“We are one,” he announced to the chamber, to the dangling chains where the women had hung. “Our fates are one. It will obey my summons now.”
Tamira started as the door opened, crashing back against the stone wall. She felt Jondra tense as Basrakan appeared in the opening.
“It is time,” the Imalla said.
“He will save us,” Tamira whispered, and Jondra echoed, “He will save us.”
“They are stirring,” Eldran said.
Conan nodded, but did not take his eyes from the two-story stone structure below. From all the camps hillmen were moving, thick lines of them filing toward the stone columns that peeked through the gap between mountains. In the village five score turbanned men stood before the stone building. A red-robed man with a forked beard and multi-hued turban stepped out, and a muffled roar rose from the waiting hillmen, the words of it lost with the distance.
The Cimmerian stiffened as Jondra appeared, naked, arms bound behind her, a guard to either side with drawn tulwar. And behind her came Tamira, tied and bare as well.
“They are together,” Eldran said excitedly. “And unharmed, so far as I can see. Alive, at least, praise Wiccana.”
“So far,” Conan said.
The skin between the Cimmerian’s shoulderblades prickled. There was much about the scene below that did not please him, much beside the way the women were being treated. Where were they being taken, and why? Why?
The hundred hillmen formed a rough, hollow circle about the red-robed man and the two women. The procession joined the streams flowing toward the distant columns.
“This feels ill,” Conan said. Unconsciously he eased his ancient broadsword in its worn shagreen sheath. “I do not think we can wait longer.”
“Just a little longer,” Haral pleaded. “Fyrdan will bring the soldiers soon. He will not fail.”
“Not soon enough, it seems,” Conan said. He got to his feet and dusted his hands together. “I think I will take a stroll among the hillmen.”
With a grin, Eldran straightened. “I feel the need of stretching my legs as well, Cimmerian.”
“You young fools!” Haral spluttered. “You’ll get your heads split. You’ll … you’ll … .” With a growl he stood up beside them. “We’ll need turbans, if we’re to pass for hillmen long enough to keep our heads.” The others were on their feet now, too.
“There is a camp just down the mountain,” Conan said, “and none in it save women and children, that I can see.”
“Then let us be about our walk,” Eldran said.
“These old bones aren’t up to this any more,” Haral complained.
The small file of men started down the mountain.
“ … For the time of our glory has come,” Basrakan cried to the throngs of turbanned men jammed shoulder to shoulder on the mountainsides about the amphitheater. Their answering roar washed over him. “The time of the old gods’ triumph is upon us!” he called. “The sign of the true gods is with us!”
He spread his arms, and the flow of power through his bones made him think he might fly. Loudly he began to chant, the words echoing from the slopes. Never had so many seen the rite, he thought as the invocation rang out. After this day there would be no doubters.
His dark eyes flickered to the two naked women dangling from their wrists against the iron posts in the center of the circle of crude stone pillars. It was fitting, he thought, that those who brought him the Eyes of Fire should be the sacrifice now, when the new power that was in him was made manifest to his people. They struggled in the bonds, and one of them cried a name, but he did not hear. The glory of the old gods filled him.
The last syllable hung in the air, and vibration in the stone beneath his feet told Basrakan of the coming. He drew breath to announce the arrival of the sign of the true gods’ favor.
From the masses on the slopes shouts and cries drifted, becoming louder. Basrakan’s face became like granite. He would have those who dared disturb this moment flayed alive over a slow fire. He would … . There were men within the circle! Abruptly the words penetrated his mind.
“Soldiers!” was the cry. “We are attacked!”
Walking hunched to disguise his height, with his cloak drawn tightly around him, Conan pushed through the pack of hillmen quickly, giving no man more than an instant to see his face. Grumbles and curses followed him. A roughly wound turban topped his black mane, and his face was smeared with soot and grease from a cooking pot, but he was grateful that men saw what they thought they should see, no matter what their eyes told them. The wide circle of crude stone columns was only a few paces away. Conan kept his head down, but his eyes were locked on the two women. A few moments more, he thought.
A murmur ran through the crowd, growing louder. Far down the mountain someone shouted, and other voices took up the cry. It had been more than the big Cimmerian expected to go undetected so long. Best to move before the alarm became general. Grasping his sword hilt firmly, Conan tore off the turban and leaped for the circle of columns.
As he passed between two of the roughly hewn pillars he realized what words were being shouted. “Soldiers! We are attacked! Soldiers!” Over and over from a thousand throats. Fyrdan, he thought, laughing. They might live through this yet.
Then he was running across the uneven granite blocks, blade bared. The red-robed man, forked beard shaking with fury, shouted at him from atop a tunnel built of stone that seemed to reach back into the mountain, but Conan did not hear. Straight to the blackened iron posts he ran. Tears sprang into Tamira’s eyes when she saw him.
“I knew you would come,” she laughed and cried at the same time. “I knew you would come.”
Swiftly Conan sawed apart the leather cords on her wrists. As she dropped, he caught her with an arm around her slim waist, and she tried to twine her arms about his neck.
“Not now, woman,” he growled. In a trice he had her slender nudity bundled in his cloak. From the corner of his eye he saw that Eldran had treated Jondra the same. “Now to get out,” he said.
Haral and the other Brythunians were within the columned circle, all facing outwards with swords in hand. From outside, bearded faces stared at them, some with disbelief, some with anger. And some, Conan saw in amazement, some with fear. Tulwar hilts were fingered, but none moved to cross the low granite wall atop which the columns stood.
From afar came the sounds of Zamoran drums beating furiously. The clash of steel drifted faintly in the air, and the shouts of fighting men.
“Mayhap we can just stay here till the soldiers come,” Haral said unsteadily.
A ripple ran through the hillmen pressed against the circle’s perimeter.
“Stay back!” the red-robed man cried. “The unbelievers will be dealt with by—”
Screaming at the top of their lungs, a score of turbanned warriors leaped into the circle with steel flashing against the Brythunians. By ones and twos, others joined them. Conan wished he knew what held the rest back, but there was suddenly no time for thought.
The Cimmerian blocked a tulwar slash aimed at his head, booted another attacker full in the belly. The second man fell beneath the feet of a third. The Cimmerian’s steel pivoted around his first opponent’s curved blade to drive through a leather-vested chest. He wanted to spare a glance for Tamira, but more hillmen were pressing on him. A mighty swing of his ancient broadsword sent a turbanned head rolli
ng on the granite blocks, then continued on to rip out a bearded throat in a spray of blood.
Battle rage rose in him, the fiery blood that drowned reason. Hillmen rushed against him, and fell before a whirlwind of murderous steel. His eyes burned like azure flames, and all who looked into them knew they saw their own death. In some small corner of his mind sanity remained, enough to see Eldran, facing three hillmen and pushed almost to the low stone wall, fighting with broadsword in one hand and tulwar in the other. Haral and another Brythunian stood back to back, and a barricade of corpses slowed others who tried to reach them.
Abruptly the hillman who faced Conan backed away, dark eyes going wide with horror as he stared past the Cimmerian’s shoulder. The tribesmen outside the circle were silent, pressing back from the stone columns. Conan risked a backward glance, and clamped his teeth on an oath.
Slowly the iridescent form of the beast of fire moved from the stone tunnel, its great golden eyes coldly surveying the arena filled with men who slowed and ceased their struggles as they became aware of it. One of the leathery bulges on its back had split; the edge of what appeared to be a wing, like that of a great bat, protruded. And almost beneath its feet crouched Tamira and Jondra.
“Behold!” the red-robed mage cried, flinging wide his arms. “The sign of the true gods is with us!”
For an instant there was silence save for the dimly heard sounds of distant battle. Then Eldran shouted. “Cimmerian!” The Brythunian’s arm drew back; the ancient broadsword with its strange, clawed quillons arcked spinning through the air.
Conan shifted his own sword to his left hand, and his right went up to catch the hilt of the thrown blade.
As if his movement, or perhaps the sword, had drawn its eyes, the brightly scaled beast stepped toward the Cimmerian. Memory of their last encounter was strong in Conan, and as the spike-toothed maw opened he threw himself into a rolling tumble. Flame roared. The hillman he had faced screamed as beard, hair and filthy robes blazed.
Conan knew well the quickness of the beast. He came to his feet only to dive in a different direction, one that took him closer. Fire scorched the stone where he had stood. The glittering creature moved with the speed of a leopard, Conan like a hunting lion. With a mutter of hope that Eldran spoke truly about the weapon, the big Cimmerian struck. A shock, as of sparks traveling along his bones, went through him. And the blade sliced through one golden eye, opening a gaping wound down the side of the huge scaled head, a wound that dripped black ichor.
Atop the stone tunnel the red-robed man screamed shrilly and threw his hands to his face. The beast reared back its head and echoed the scream, the two sounds merging, ringing through the mountains.
Conan felt his marrow freezing as the cry lanced into him, turning his muscles to water. Anger flared in him. He would not wait so to die. Fury lent him strength. “Crom!” he roared. Rushing forward, he plunged the ensorceled weapon into the creature’s chest.
With a jerk, the beast’s movement tore the hilt from his hand. Onto its hind legs it rose, towering above them all. If its cry had been one of pain before, now it was a shriek of agony, a scream that made the very stones of the mountains shiver.
The red-robed man was down on his knees, one hand to his face, the other clutching his chest. His black eyes on the scaled form were pools of horror. “No!” he howled. “No!”
Slowly the monstrous shape toppled. The stones of the tunnel cracked at its fall. A damp, leathery wing emerged from the broken bulge on its back, quivered once and was still. From beneath the beast extended a corner of scarlet robe, rivulets of crimson blood and black ichor falling from it.
From the hillmen on the slopes a keening went up, an eery wail of despair. Suddenly the thousands of them broke into fear-ridden flight. Even now they tried to avoid the circle of columns, but their numbers were too great, their panic too strong. Those close to the low stone wall were forced over it, screaming denial, by the press of human flesh. The circle became a maelstrom, hundreds trampling each other in their eagerness to flee.
Like a rock Conan breasted the flood, his eyes searching desperately for Tamira and Jondra. The men streaming around him had no thought left but escape, no desire but to claw through the pack, grinding underfoot anyone who slowed them. No man raised a hand against the Cimmerian except to try to pull him from their path. None touched a weapon, or even seemed to see him with their terrified eyes. They would not stop to harm the women deliberately, but if either woman went down beneath those trampling feet … .
Eldran’s height made him stand out as he waded through the shorter hillmen with Jondra in his arms. The Brythunian scrambled over the low stone wall and disappeared in the wash of dirty turbans.
Then Conan caught sight of the gold-edged black cloak, well beyond the circle, being borne around the mountain by the tide of flight. “Fool woman,” he growled.
The clash of steel was closer, driving fear deeper into the hearts of men still trying to flee. There was no room to draw or swing a sword, but here and there daggers were out now, and hillman spilled hillman’s blood to carve a way through to safety. With hammering fists and swordhilt, Conan hewed his own path through the mob, ruthless in his need to reach Tamira. Screaming men went down before his blows, and those who fell beneath the feet of that frenzied horde did not rise again.
The hillman village came into sight. Around the two-story stone building swarmed a hell of panting, desperate men dragging screaming black-swathed women with squalling babes in their arms and children clutching their long skirts. Here knots of men could break off from the seething mass to seek their camps. Others paused in flight to grab what they could from the stone huts. Bright steel flashed and reddened, and possessions changed hands thrice in the space of a breath.
Conan’s sword and the breadth of his shoulders kept a space clear about him, but he barely even saw the men who slunk away from him like curs. He could no longer find Tamira among the now spreading streams of hillmen.
Abruptly the slender woman thief dashed from the stone structure that towered over the others in the village. She gasped and snugged the gold-edged black cloak tightly about her as Conan grabbed her arm.
“What in Mitra’s name are you doing?” the Cimmerian demanded fiercely.
“My clothes,” she began, and shrieked when he raised his sword.
Deftly Conan brought his blade over her head to run through a black-robed man who ran from the building with a dagger in his hand and murder in his eye. The hillman’s multi-hued turban rolled from his head as he fell.
“I was just,” Tamira began again, holding the cloak even more tightly, but she cut off with a squeal as Conan swung her over his shoulder.
“Fool, fool woman,” he muttered, and with a wary eye for other hillmen with more than flight on their minds, he headed for the mountain heights.
Behind him, clangor rose as the Zamoran army topped the rise overlooking the village.
Epilogue
Geaning back against a boulder, Conan allowed himself a real smile for the first time in days. They were at the edge of the mountains, and in their journey they had seen no hillman who was not fleeing. Certainly there had been none interested in attacking outsiders.
“ … And when Tenerses realized how many hillmen he faced,” Fyrdan was saying, “he began shouting for me and his torturer all in one breath.”
“There was little fun where we were, either,” Haral told him. “These old bones cannot take this adventuring any more.”
Jondra and Tamira, still swathed in their borrowed cloaks, huddled close to a small fire with their heads together. They showed more interest in their own talk than that of the men.
“It was hard enough with the Zamorans,” the bony man laughed. “I thought I would have my hide stripped off on the instant. Then that … that sound came.” He shivered and pulled his cloak closer about him. “It turned men’s bowels to water. The hillmen stood for only a moment after that, then broke.”
“That was
Conan,” Eldran said from where he examined the two shaggy horses they had found wandering, saddled but riderless, in the mountains. There had been others that they could not catch. “He slew the beast of fire, and it … screamed.”
“And the Zamoran gained his victory,” Haral said, “and his glory. It will be years before the hill tribes so much as think of uniting again. He will be acclaimed a hero in Shadizar, while the Cimmerian gets nothing.”
“Let Tenerses have his glory,” Conan said. “We have our lives, and the beast is dead. What more can we ask?”
Eldran turned suddenly from the horses. “One more thing,” he said sharply. “A matter of debt. Jondra!”
Jondra stiffened and looked over her shoulder at the tall Brythunian. Tamira rose swiftly, carefully holding the black cloak closed, and moved to Conan’s side.
“I know of no debt I owe you.” The gray-eyed noblewoman’s voice was tight. “But I would speak with you about garments. How long am I to be forced to wear no more than this cloak? Surely you can find me something more.”
“Garments are a part of your debt,” Eldran told her. He ticked off items on his fingers. “One cloak lined with badger fur. One pair of wolf fur leggings. And a good Nemedian dagger. I will not speak of a crack on the head. Since I see no chance of having them returned, I will have payment.”
Jondra sniffed. “I will have their weight in gold sent to you from Shadizar.”
“Shadizar?” Eldran laughed. “I am a Brythunian. What do I care of gold in Shadizar?” Abruptly he leaped, bearing the tall noblewoman to the ground. From his belt he produced long leather thongs like those used to tie leggings. “If you cannot pay me,” he said into her disbelieving face, “then I will have you in payment.”
Conan rose to his feet, one hand going to his sword hilt, but Tamira laid both of her small hands atop his. “Do nothing,” she said softly.
The big Cimmerian frowned down at her. “Do you hate her so?”