“The beast of fire,” one of the mounted Brythunians murmured, and others made a curving sign in the air before them as if it were a charm.
Eldran’s face was tight. “We seek the beast as well, Jondra. Our people know it of old. Perhaps we can join forces.”
“I need no more hunters,” Jondra said quickly.
‘‘The creature is more difficult to slay than you can imagine,” the tall Brythunian said urgently. His hand gripped tightly at the hilt of his sword, a weapon of ancient pattern with quillons ending in claws like an eagle’s.”It’s breath is fire. Without us you can but die in the seeking of it.”
“So say you,” she said mockingly, “with your children’s tales. I say I will slay the beast, and without your aid. I also say that I had better not find you attempting to poach my kill. This trophy is mine, Brythunian. Do you understand me?”
“Your eyes are like the mists of dawn,” he said, smiling.
Jondra quivered. “If I see you again, I’ll put arrows in both of your eyes. I’ll—”
Suddenly she grabbed a bow from one of her archers. Brythunian spears were lowered, and their horses pranced nervously. Hunters reached for their tulwars. In one smooth motion Jondra drew and released, into the air. Far above the camp a raven gave a shrill cry and began to flutter erratically, dropping toward a far hill.
“See that,” Jondra exclaimed, “and fear my shafts.”
Before the words were out of her mouth the distant raven jerked downward, turning over as it plummeted to reveal a second arrow transfixing its feathered corpse.
“You are a fine shot,” Eldran said as he lowered his bow. Smoothly he swung into his saddle. “I would stay to shoot with you, but I have hunting to do.” Without a backward glance he wheeled his horse and rode down the hill, his men following as if unaware that their backs were bare to the camp’s archers.
That thought occurred quickly to Arvaneus. “Archers,” he began, when Jondra whirled on him, glaring. She said no word, nor needed to. The huntsman backed away from her, eyes down, muttering, “Your forgiveness, my lady.”
Next she turned her attentions to Conan. “You,” she breathed. “He spoke to me like that, and you did nothing. Nothing!”
The big Cimmerian eyed her impassively. “Perhaps he is right. I found signs of a beast that may kill with fire. And if he is right about that, perhaps he is right about the difficulty of killing it. Perhaps you should return to Shadizar.”
“Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps!” She spat each word. “Why was I not told of these signs? Arvaneus, what do you know of this?”
The huntsman darted a malice-filled gaze at Conan. ‘‘A fire begun by lightning,” he said sullenly, ‘‘and a few old bones. This one is frightened by his own shadow. Or by the shadow of the mountains.”
“That is not true, is it?” Jondra’s eyes were doubtful on Conan’s face. “You do not make invention for fear of dying at the hillmen’s hands, do you?”
‘‘I do not fear death,” Conan said flatly.”The dark will come when it comes. But none save a fool seeks it out needlessly.”
The noblewoman tossed her head haughtily. “So,” she said, and again, “So.” Without another look at Conan, she stalked away, calling loudly, “Lyana! Prepare my morning bath, girl!”
Arvaneus grinned at Conan malevolently, but the Cimmerian youth did not see him. Matters had become complex far beyond his simple plans on leaving Shadizar, Conan thought. What was he to do now? There was one way he knew to concentrate his mind for the solution of a problem. Producing a small whetstone from his pouch, he drew his sword and settled cross-legged to touch up the edge on the ancient blade and think.
Basrakan Imalla glared at the raven lying dead on his chamber floor and tugged at the forks of his beard in frustration. The watch-ravens were not easily come by. Nestlings must be secured, and only one pair in twenty survived the incantations that linked them so that one of the two saw and experienced what the other did. Time to secure the birds, time to work the spells. He had no time for replacing the accursed bird. Likely the other had fallen to a hawk. And he had so few of them.
With a grunt he kicked the dead bird, smashing it into the bare stone wall. ‘‘Filthy creature,” he snarled.
Tugging his crimson robes straight, he turned to the six tall perches that stood in the center of the floor. On five of the perches ravens sat, tilting their heads to watch him with eyes like shiny black beads. Their wings, clipped so they could not fly, drooped listlessly. There were few furnishings in the room other than those perches. A table inlaid with mother-of-pearl bore a brass lamp and a scattering of implements for the dark arts. A shelf along one wall held the volumes of necromantic lore that he had gathered in a lifetime. No one entered that room, or the others reserved to his great work, save him, and none save his acolytes knew what occurred there.
Lighting a splinter of wood at the lamp, Basrakan began to trace an intricate figure in the air before the first bird. The tiny eyes followed the flame, which was mirrored in their black surfaces. As he traced, Basrakan chanted words from a tome copied on vellum made of human skin rather than sheepskin, words that floated in the air till the walls seemed to shimmer. With each word the tracing grew more solid, till an unholy symbol in fire hung between himself and the raven.
The raven’s beak opened with painful slowness, and creaking words, barely recognizable, emerged. “Hills. Sky. Trees. Clouds. Many many clouds.”
The sorcerer clapped his hands; the fiery image vanished, and the words ceased to come. It was often thus with the creatures. By the spells that held them they would speak of men before all else, but if there were no men they would mutter about whatever they happened to see, go on forever if he did not silence them.
The same ritual before the next bird gained him the same reply, with only the terrain changed, as did the next and the next. By the time he reached the last raven he was hurrying. An important matter awaited his attention in the next room, and he was certain by now what the creature would report. Chanting, he traced the symbol in fire, preparing even as it came into being to clap his hands.
“Soldiers,” the raven croaked. “Many many. Many many.”
Barakan’s breath caught in his throat. Never more than now had he regretted the inability of the ravens to transmit numbers. “Where?” he demanded.
“South. South of mountains.”
Thoughtfully the stern-faced Imalla stroked his beard. If they came from the south, they must be Zamorans. But how to deal with them? The bird that had actually seen the soldiers could be made to return and guide his warriors back to them. The men would see it as a further sign of the favor of the old gods, for birds were creatures of the spirits of the air. And it would the first victory, the first of many against the unbelievers.
“Return!” Basrakan commanded.
“Return,” the raven croaked agreement, and he broke the link.
How many soldiers, he wondered as he strode from the chamber, and how many warriors of the true gods to send against them?
As he passed through the next chamber, he paused to ponder the girl who cowered against a wall paneled in polished oak, as rare and costly in these mountains as pearls. Her dark eyes streamed tears, and her full mouth quivered uncontrollably. Her skin was smooth and supple, and his view of it was not hampered by garments.
Basrakan grimaced in disgust and wiped his hands on the front of his scarlet robes. Only eighteen, and already she was a vessel of lust, attempting to ensnare the minds of men. As did all women. None were truly pure. None were worthy of the ancient gods.
Shaking himself from his dark reverie, the holy man hurried on. He had no fear for the girl’s wandering. The geas he had put on her would not allow her to leave that chamber until he gave her permission, until he found her worthy.
In the corridor he found Jbeil Imalla just entering his abode. The lean man bowed, his black robes rustling stiffly. “The blessings of the true gods be on you, Basrakan Imalla. I come with ill tiding
s.”
‘‘III tidings?” Basrakan said, ignoring the greeting. “Speak, man!”
“Many warriors have joined our number, but most of them have never seen the sign of the true gods’ favor.” Jbeil’s dark eyes burned with the fervor of the true believer above his plaited beard, and his mouth twisted with contempt for those less full of faith than himself. “Many are the voices crying out to witness a sacrifice. Even some who have seen now whisper that the creature sent by the ancient gods has abandoned us, since it has not been seen in so many days. A few, among the newcomers, say that there is no sign, that it is all a lie. These last speak now in private places, among themselves, but they will not forever, and I fear the hearts of the doubters may be easily swayed.”
Basrakan’s teeth ground in frustration. He had had the same fears of abandonment himself, and scourged himself at night, alone, for his lack of belief. He had tried to summon the beast ot fire, tried and failed. But it was still there, he told himself. Still beneath the mountain, waiting to come forth once more. Waiting for—his breath caught in his throat—a sign of their faith.
“How many warriors are gathered?” he demanded.
“More than forty thousand, Imalla, and more come every day. It is a great strain to feed so many, though they are, of course, the faithful.”
Basrakan pulled himself to his full height. Renewed belief shone on his dark narrow face. “Let the warriors know that their lack of faith is not secret.” He intoned the words, letting them flow from him, convinced they were inspired by the true gods.”Let them know that an act of faith is demanded of them if they would have the sight they crave. A bird will come, a raven, a sign from the spirits of the air. Half of those gathered are to follow it, and it will guide them to unbelievers, soldiers of Zamora. These they must slay, letting none escape. Not one. If this is done as it is commanded, the sight of the true gods’ favor will be granted to them.”
“A bird,” Jbeil breathed. “A sign from the spirits of the air. Truly are the ancient gods mighty, and truly is Basraken Imalla mighty in their sight.”
Basrakan waved away the compliment with a negligent hand. “I am but a man,” he said. “Now, go! See that it is done as I have commanded.”
The black-robed man bowed himself from the sorcerer’s presence, and Basrakan began to rub at his temples as soon as he was gone. So many pressures on him. They made his head hurt. But there was the girl. Showing her the evil within her, saving her from it, would ease the pain. He would chastise the lust from her. His face shining with the ascetic look of one who suffered for his duty, Basrakan retraced his steps.
Chapter 11
Djinar lay on his belly in the night and studied the hunter’s camp, lying still and quiet on the next hill. His dark robes blended with the shadows of his own stony hilltop. Only smouldering beds of ashes remained of the cook fires, leaving the camp in darkness, its tents and carts but dim mounds, save for the soft glow of lamps within a large tent of scarlet. The moon rode high over the jagged peaks to the north, but dense dark clouds let its pale light through only an occasional brief rent. A perfect night for attack. He tugged at the triple braids of his beard. Perhaps the ancient gods were with them.
It had certainly seemed so during the days when the trail of the hunting party led north like an arrow aimed at the encampment of Basraken Imalla. Could it be that the Eyes of Fire were drawn in some fashion to the Imalla, that the true gods stirred themselves among men, even through the Zamoran slut? A chill like the trickle of an icy mountain stream ran down Djinar’s spine, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. It seemed to him that the ancient gods walked the earth within sight of his eyes. Rocks grated behind him; Djinar gasped, and almost fouled himself.
Farouz dropped down beside him on the stony ground.
“Sentries?” Djinar asked finally. He was pleased at the steadiness of his voice.
The other man snorted in contempt. “Ten of them, but all more asleep than awake. They will die easily.”
“So many? The soldiers set guards in such numbers, but not hunters.”
“I tell you, Djinar, they all but snore. Their eyes are closed.”
“A score of eyes,” Djinar sighed. “All it takes is one pair to be alert. If the camp is awakened, and we must ride uphill at them … .”
“Bah! We should have attacked when first we found them, while they were yet on the march. Or do you still fear the Brythunian dogs? They are gone long since.”
Djinar did not answer. Only because Sharmal had gone off alone to answer a call of nature had the Brythunians been seen, ghosting along the trail of the hunters from Shadizar. There was no great love lost between Brythunian and Zamoran, it was true, but either would turn aside from slaying the other to wet his blade with the blood of a hillman. Farouz would have placed them between their two enemies—at least two score of the Brythunians; half again so many Zamorans—without a thought save how many he could kill.
“If your … caution brings us to failure,” Farouz muttered, “do not think to shield yourself from Basrakan Imalla’s wrath by casting blame on others. The truth will be known.”
Farouz, Djinar decided, would not survive to return to the Imalla’s encampment of the faithful. The old gods themselves would see the justice of it.
Again boots scrabbled on the rocks behind him, but this time Djinar merely looked over his shoulder. Sharmal, a slender young man with his wispy beard worked into many thin braids, squatted near the two men. “The Brythunian unbelievers ride yet to the east,” the young man said.
“They did not stop at dark?” Djinar demanded, frowning. He did not like behavior out of the ordinary, and men did not travel by night without pressing reason, not in sight of the Kezankians.
“When I turned back at sundown,” Sharmal answered, “they still rode east. I … I did not wish to miss the fighting.”
“If there is to be any,” Farouz sneered.
Djinar’s teeth ground loudly. “Mount your horses,” he commanded. “Surround the camp and advance slowly. Strike no blow until I call, unless the alarm be given. Well, Farouz? You speak eager words. Can your arm match them?”
With a snarl Farouz leaped to his feet and dashed down the hill to where their shaggy, mountain-bred horses waited.
Djinar followed with a grim smile and climbed into the high-pommeled saddle. Carefully he walked his mount around the side of the hill, toward the camp atop the next stony rise. The rattle of unshod hooves on rock did not disturb him, not now. He guided his horse upslope. To the core of him he was convinced the Zamorans would not rouse. The ancient gods were with him. He and the others were one with the dark. He could make out a sentry, leaning on his spear, unseeing, unaware of one more shadow that drifted closer. Djinar loosed his tulwar from its scabbard. The true gods might walk the camp before him, but there was another presence as well. Death. He could smell it. Death for many men. Death for Farouz.
Smiling, Djinar dug in his heels; his mount sprang forward. The sentry had time to widen his eyes in shock; then the curved blade with the strength of Djinar’s arm and the weight of the charging horse behind it took the man’s head from his shoulders. Djinar’s cry rent the darkness. “By the will of the true gods, slay them! No quarter!” Screaming hillmen slashed out of the night with thirsty steel.
Conan’s eyes slitted open, where he lay wrapped in his cloak and the night beneath the sky. After her behavior he had chosen not to go to Jondra’s tent, despite the lamps that remained invitingly lit even now. It had not been thoughts of the silken body that had wakened him, though, but a sound out of place. He could hear the breathing of the sentry nearest him, a breathing too deeply regular for a man alert. The fools would not hear his advice, he thought. They listened, but would not hear. There were other things they did not hear, as well. The sentry’s half-snore was overlaid by another sound; stones slid and clicked on the hillside. On all sides of the hill.
“Crom!” he muttered. In a continuous motion he threw aside his black cl
oak, rose to his feet and drew steel. His mouth opened to shout the alarm, and in that instant there was need no longer.
On the heels of the hollow ‘thunk’ of a blade striking flesh came, “By the will of the true gods, slay them! No quarter!”
Chaos clawed its way out of the dark, hillmen appearing on every side screaming for the blood of unbelievers, hunters scrambling from their tents crying prayers to their gods for another dawn.
The big Cimmerian ran toward the sentry he had listened to. Shocked to wakefulness the hunter tried to lower his long-pointed spear, but a slashing stroke across the face from a tulwar spun him shrieking to the ground.
“Crom!” Conan roared.
The hillman jerked at his reins, spun his shaggy mount above the downed sentry toward the huge man who loomed out of the night. “The true gods will it!” he yelled. Waving his bloody blade above his turban, he booted his shaggy mount into a charge.
For the space of a heartbeat Conan halted, planted his feet as if preparing to take the charge. Suddenly he sprang forward, ducking under the whistling crescent of steel, his own blade lancing into the hillman’s middle. The shock of the blow rocked the Cimmerian to his heels as the hillman seemed to leap backwards over his horse’s rump to crash to earth.
Placing his foot on the chest of the corpse, Conan pulled his sword free. Warned by a primitive sense, by a pricking between his shoulderblades, he whirled to find another mounted foe, and a tulwar streaking for his head. But his steel was rising as he turned, its razor edge slicing through the descending wrist. Tulwar and hand flew, and the keening hillman galloped into the night with the fountaining stump of his wrist held high, as if he could thus keep the blood from pouring out of him.
Already two high-wheeled carts were towering bonfires, and flames swiftly ate five of the round tents. Over all hung the din of battle, the clang of steel on steel, the screams of the wounded, the moans of the dying. Another cart burst afire. The burnings cast back the night from struggling pairs of men who danced with sanguine blades among the bodies that littered the hilltop. Of those who lay still, more wore the mail shirts and spiked helms of Zamorans than wore turbans.