“What happened?” the Cimmerian asked. He draped the cloak around the woman as best he could with her hands bound. Her eyes flew open, giving him a look of mingled surprise and gratitude.
“I’m not entirely certain,” the merchant said, “but it seems that her belief is that if she cannot see me, I cannot see her.” Even in the dark her blush at his words was evident.
“We have no time for foolishness,” Conan said. “Come.”
A thousand gold pieces was a powerful spur when added to the command of a man such as Karim Singh, but even that spur lost its sharpness when the searchers began to believe their quarry had already escaped from the encamped caravan. Patrols of Vendhyans began to grow fewer, and those who still hunted did so in desultory fashion. Many no longer even went through the motions, gathering instead in easily avoided knots to talk in low voices.
Short of the Khitan’s camp Conan halted, still hidden in the darkness among the other merchants’ tents. Vyndra obeyed his grip on her arm with seeming docility, but he maintained his hold. The fire was only coals now, and bales of velvet lay ripped open among carpets unrolled and scattered about. If anyone had died there—the Cimmerian remembered the report to Karim Singh of four dead—their bodies had been taken away. The picket line was only a murky mass but some of those shadows moved in ways he did not like. Kang Hou started forward, but Conan caught his arm.
“Horses move even in the night,” the Khitan whispered, “and the soldiers would not hide. We must hurry.”
Conan shook his head. Pursing his lips, he gave the call of a bird found only on the plains of Zamora. For an instant there was silence, then the call came back, from the picket line.
“Now we hurry,” Conan said and ran for the horses, hauling Vyndra behind him.
Hordo stepped out to meet him, motioning for greater quickness. “I hoped you had made it, Cimmerian,” he said hoarsely. “Hell has come to sup, it seems.” Two other shadows became men, Enam and Prytanis.
“I heard there are four dead,” Conan said. “Who?”
“Baltis!” Prytanis spat. “The Vendhyan scum cut him to shreds. I said you brought us all to our deaths.”
“He followed me,” Conan agreed, to the slit-nosed man’s evident surprise. “It is another debt I owe.”
“Baltis died well,” Hordo said, “and took an honor guard with him. A man can ask no more of dying than that. The other three,” he added to the Khitan, “were your servants. I have not seen your nieces.”
“My servants were not fighting men,” Kang Hou sighed, “but I had hoped…. No matter. As for my nieces, Kuie Hsi will care for her sister as well as I could. Might I suggest that we take horses and continue this talk elsewhere?”
“A good suggestion,” Conan said.
The stallion was still there; Conan had feared that such a fine mount would have been taken by the Vendhyans. He heaved the saddle onto the animal’s back one-handed but fastening the girth would require two hands. Giving Vyndra a warning look, he released her but kept a sharp eye on her as he hastily strapped the saddle tight. To his surprise, she did not move. No doubt, he thought, she still dreaded being found clothed as she was, even if it did mean rescue.
“The wench,” Hordo said curiously. “Do you have a purpose with her, or is she just a token to remember this place by?”
“There is a purpose,” Conan said, explaining why he could not leave her yet. “It may be I must take her all the way to Vendhya with me, for I doubt she’d survive long if I left her to make her own way on the plain.” He paused, then asked with more casualness than he felt, “What of Ghurran?”
“I’ve not seen the old man since the attack,” Hordo replied regretfully. “I am sorry, Cimmerian.”
“What is, is,” Conan said grimly. “I must saddle a horse for the woman. I fear you must ride astride, Vyndra, for we have no sidesaddle.” She merely stared at him, unblinking.
It was a silent procession that made its stealthy way through the tents of the encampment, leading their horses. The animals could walk more quietly without burdens, and they all would have been more noticeable mounted. The Vendhyan patrols, half-hearted and noisy, might as well not have been there. Conan, first in line, had the reins of his horse and Vyndra’s in one hand and her arm firmly in the other. Discovery would end the need for keeping her, as he was sure she must know, and he was not about to trust the odd passivity she had shown so far.
The edge of the caravan encampment appeared before him, and ingrained caution made him signal a halt. Prytanis began to speak, but Conan angrily motioned him to silence. There was a faint noise, almost too low to hear. The soft tread of horses. Perhaps all of the Vendhyans had not given up on the hunt.
A glance told Conan the others had heard as well. Swords were in hand—Kang Hou held one of his throwing knives—and each man had moved alongside his horse to be ready to mount. The Cimmerian tensed, ready to heave Vyndra aside to relative safety and vault into his saddle, as the other horses appeared.
Five animals were in the other pary as well, and Conan almost laughed with relief when he saw those leading the beasts. Shamil and Hasan, each with a protective arm about one of Kang Hou’s nieces, and old Ghurran hobbling in the rear.
“It is good to see you,” Conan called softly.
The two younger men spun, clawing for their swords. Hasan was somewhat hampered by Chin Kou clutching at him, but Kuie Hsi came up with a knife poised to throw. A dangerous family, the Cimmerian thought. Ghurran merely watched expressionessly as though no fear remained in him.
The two groups joined, everyone attempting whispered conversation, but Conan silenced them with a hiss. “We talk when we are safe,” he told them softly, “and that is far from here.” Lifting Vyndra into her saddle, he adjusted the soldier’s cloak to give her a modicum of decency. “I will find you something to wear,” he promised. “Perhaps you will dance for me yet.” She stared at him above the gag, the expression in her eyes unreadable.
As Conan swung into his own saddle, a wave of dizziness swept over him, and he had to clutch the high pommel to keep from falling.
Ghurran was at his side in an instant. “I will compound the potion as soon as I can,” the old herbalist said. “Hang on.”
“I’ve no intention of anything else,” Conan managed through gritted teeth. Leading Vyndra’s horse by the reins, he kneed his own mount to motion, into the night toward Vendhya. He would not let go.
There were debts to pay, and two men to kill first.
CHAPTER XVII
Naipal looked at the man facing him, a thin, hard-eyed Vendhyan who could have been a soldier, and wondered at what motivated him. Neither personal gain nor power seemed to impress the other man. He showed no signs of love or hate or pride, nor of any other emotion. It made the wizard uneasy, confronting a man who exposed so little by which he might be manipulated.
“You understand, then?” Naipal said. “When Bhandarkar is dead, the oppression will end. Shrines to Katar will be allowed in every city.”
“Have I not said that I understand?” the nameless representative of the Katari asked quietly.
They were alone in the round chamber, its shallow-domed ceiling a bas-relief of ancient heroes. Golden lamps on the walls gave soft illumination. No food or drink had been brought, for the Katari would not eat in the dwelling of one who invoked the services of his cult. They stood because the Katari did, and the wizard did not want the other looming over him. A standing man had the advantages of height and position over a seated man.
“You have not said it will be done.” Naipal was hard pressed to keep irritation out of his voice. There was so much to be done this day, but this part was as important as any and must be handled delicately.
Along with the other things that did not impress or affect one of the Katari was the power of a sorcerer. Spells could destroy a Katari as quickly as any other man, but that meant little to one who believed to his core that death, however it came, meant instantly being taken to the si
de of his goddess. It all gave the wizard an ache in his temples.
“It will be done,” the Katari said. “In return for what you have promised, Bhandarkar, even on his throne, will be dedicated to the goddess. But if the promises are not kept…”
Naipal ignored the threat. That was an aspect he could deal with later. He certainly had no intention of giving additional power to a cult that could, and assuredly would, undermine him. The khorassani could certainly protect him against the assassin’s knife. Or a bodyguard of resurrected warriors from King Orissa’s tomb.
“You understand also,” the wizard said, “that the deed must be done when I signal it? Not before. Not an hour before.”
“Have I not said that I understand?” the other repeated.
Naipal sighed. The Katari had the reputation of killing in their own time and their own way, but even if Bhandarkar had not protected himself against spells, there could be nothing of sorcery connected with his death. The appearance of clean hands would be essential to Naipal, for he wanted a land united willingly under the supposed leadership of Karim Singh, not one ravaged by opposition and war. And who would believe a wizard would use the Katari when he could slay so easily by other means?
“Very well,” Naipal said. “At my sign, Bhandarkar is to die by Katari knives, on his throne, in full view of his nobles and advisers.”
“Bhandarkar will die.”
With that Naipal had to be satisfied. He offered the Katari a purse of gold, and the man took it with neither change of expression nor word of gratitude. It would go to the coffers of the Katari, the wizard knew, and so was no cord to bind the fellow, but habit made him try.
When the assassin was gone, Naipal paused only to fetch the golden coffer containing the demon-wrought dagger, then made his way hurriedly to the gray-domed chamber far below the palace. The resurrected warrior stood his ceaseless vigil against a wall, unsleeping, untiring. Naipal did not look at him. The newness was gone, and what was a single warrior to the numbers he would raise from the dead?
Straight to the ivory chest he went, unhesitatingly throwing back the lid and brushing aside the silken coverings. In the mirror there was a single campfire, seen from a great height. For seven days the mirror had shown a fire by night and a small party of riders by day, first on the plains beyond the Himelias, now in the very mountains themselves. Almost out of them, in fact. They moved more slowly than was necessary. It had taken some time for him to realize that they actually followed the caravan bringing the chests to him. Salvation and potential disaster would arrive together.
Seven days of seeing the proof of Karim Singh’s failure had taken much of the sting away though. It no longer affected him as it had, watching possible doom approach. In truth, except for the pain behind his eyes that had come while talking to the Katari, Naipal felt almost numb. So much to do, he thought as he closed the box, and so little time remaining. The strain was palpable. But he would win, as he always did.
Moving quickly, he arranged the khorassani on their golden tripods. The incantations of power were spoken. Fires brighter than the sun leaped and flared and formed a cage. The summoning was cried and with a thunderous clap, Masrok floated before him in the bound void, weapons glowing in five of its eight obsidian fists.
“It is long, O man,” the demon cried angrily, “since you have summoned me. Have you not felt the stone pulse against your flesh?”
“I have been busy. Perhaps I did not notice.” Days since, Naipal had removed the black opal from about his neck to escape that furious throbbing. Masrok had to be allowed to ripen. “Besides, you yourself said that time did not matter to one such as you.”
Masrok’s huge form quivered as though on the point of leaping at the fiery barriers constraining it. “Be not a fool, O man! Within the limits of my prison have I been confined, and only its empty vastness on levels beyond your knowing has saved me. My other selves know that one of the Sivani is no more! How long can I flee them?”
“Perhaps there is no need to flee them. Perhaps your day of freedom is close, leaving those others bound for eternity. Bound away from you as well as from the world.”
“How, O man? When?”
Naipal smiled as he did when a man brought to hopeless despair by his maneuverings displayed the first cracks before shattering. “Give me the location of King Orissa’s tomb,” he said quietly. “Where lies the centuries-lost city of Maharastra?”
“No!” The word echoed ten thousand times as Masrok spun into an ebon blur, and the burning walls of its cage howled with the demon’s rage. “I will never betray! Never!”
The wizard sat, silent and waiting, until the fury had quieted. “Tell me, Masrok,” he commanded.
“Never, O man! Many times have I told you there are limits to your binding of me. Take the dagger that I gave you and strike at me. Slay me, O man, if that is your wish. But I will never betray that secret.”
“Never?” Naipal tilted his head quizzically, and the cruel smile returned to his lips. “Perhaps not.” He touched the golden coffer, but only for an instant. “I will not slay you, however. I will only send you back and leave you there for all of time.”
“What foolishness is this, O man?”
“I will not send you back to those levels vaster than my mind can know, but to that prison you share with your remaining other selves. Can even a demon know fear if its pursuers are also demons? I can only slay you, Masrok. Will they slay you when at last they overtake you? Or can demons devise tortures for demons? Will they kill you, or will you continue to live, to live until the end of time under tortures that will make you remember your prison as the most sublime of paradises? Well, Masrok?”
The huge demon stared at him malevolently, unblinking, unmoving. Yet Naipal knew. Were Masrok a man, that man would be licking his lips and sweating. He knew!
“My freedom, O man?” the demon said at last. “Free of serving you as well?”
“When the tomb is located,” Naipal replied, “and the army buried there is within my grasp, you will have your freedom. With, of course, a binding spell to make certain you can neither harm nor hinder me in the future.”
“Of course,” Masrok said slowly.
The part about the binding spell was perfect, Naipal thought. A concern for his own future safety was certain to convince the demon he meant to go through with the bargain.
“Very well, O man. The ruins of Maharastra lie ten leagues to the west of Gwandiakan, swallowed ages past by the Forests of Ghendai.”
Victory! Naipal wanted to jump to his feet and dance. Gwandiakan! It must be an omen, for the first city at which Karim Singh’s caravan would rest once across the Himelias was Gwandiakan. He must contact the wazam with the scrying glass. He would race to meet the chests there and go immediately to the tomb. But no wonder the ruins had never been found. No road had ever been hewn through the Forests of Ghendai, and few had ever tried to cut its tall trees for their wood. Huge swarms of tiny, stinging flies drove men mad and those who escaped the flies succumbed to a hundred different fevers that wracked the body with pain before they killed. Some men would rather die than enter those forests.
“Maps,” he said suddenly. “I will need maps so my men will not go astray. You will draw them for me.”
“As you command, O man.”
The demon’s weary defeat was triumphal music to Naipal’s ears.
CHAPTER XVIII
From the hills overlooking Gwandiakan, Conan stared at the city in amazement. Alabaster towers and golden domes and columned temples atop tiered, man-made hills of stone spread in vast profusion, surrounded by a towering stone wall leagues in circumference.
“ ’Tis bigger than Sultanapur,” Enam said in awe.
“ ’Tis bigger than Sultanapur and Aghrapur together,” Hordo said.
Kang Hou and his nieces seemed to take the city’s size as a matter of course, while Hasan and Shamil had eyes only for the Khitan women.
“You judge by the smallness of your own
lands,” Vyndra mocked. She sat her horse unbound, for Conan had seen no reason to keep her tied once they were away from the caravan. She wore robes of green silk from bundles of clothing the Khitan women had gathered for themselves. They were smaller women than she, and the tightness of her current garb delineated her curves to perhaps greater perfection than she might have wished. “Many cities in Vendhya are as large or larger,” she went on. “Why, Ayodhya is three times so great.”
“Are we to sit here all day?” Ghurran demanded grumpily. As the others had grown tired with journeying, the herbalist had seemed to gain energy, but all of it went to irritability.
Prytanis jumped in with still nastier tones. “What of this palace she has been telling us of? After days of living on what we can snare, with naught to drink but water, I look forward to wine and delicacies served by a willing wench. Especially as the Cimmerian wants to keep this one for himself.”
Vyndra’s face colored, but she merely said, “I will take you there.”
Conan let her take the lead, though he kept his horse close behind hers as they wended their way out of the hills. He was far from sure of what to make of the Vendhyan woman or her actions. She had made no attempt to escape and ride to the caravan, even when she knew it was just out of sight ahead of them, with a plain trail showing the way. And he often caught her watching him, a strange, unreadable look in her dark eyes. He had made no advances to her, for it seemed wrong after he had carried her away bodily. She would see a threat behind any words he might say, and she had done nothing to earn that. So he watched her in turn, uneasily, wondering when this strange calm she affected would end.
Their way led toward the city for only a short time, then turned to the west. Before they came out of the hills, Conan could see many palaces in that direction, great blocks of pale, columned marble gleaming in the sun in the midst of open spaces scattered over leagues of forest to the north and south. Still farther to the west, the trees grew taller, and there were no palaces there that he could see.