Slowly, so as to draw no attention, Conan slid his booted feet back until he could feel the heat of flames licking about them. To the smell of burning rope was added that of scorching leather, but the latter was no more noticed than the first. Then those cords were burned through as well. There was no time to waste on the gag. Rolling to his feet the big Cimmerian snatched a long, black fire-iron from the hearth.
Patch-nose was the first to see Conan free of his bonds, but the man had only time to goggle before wine sprayed out of his mouth and his skull was crushed by the fire-iron. Shouting, the others scrambled to their feet. Tenio produced his dagger, but Conan drove the fire-iron point-first through the ferret-faced man’s chest and caught the blade as it dropped from the transfixed man’s nerveless fingers. Marusas’ sword leaped into his hand, then the Zamoran was staggering back, trying to scream around the dagger that had blossomed in fountains of scarlet in his throat.
Roaring, Jamaran leaped to grapple with the Cimmerian, throwing bearlike arms about his waist, heaving him into the air. Conan felt the man’s huge fists locked in the small of his back, felt his spine begin to creak. Conan smashed his linked hands down on the nape of the huge man’s bull neck, once, twice, thrice, to no effect. Jamaran’s grip tightened inexorably. In moments, the Cimmerian knew, his back would snap. Desperately he slammed his palms against the other’s ears.
With a scream Jamaran let him drop. Even as his heels hit the stone floor, Conan’s bladed hand struck the huge Kushite’s throat. Jamaran gagged, yet lashed out with a massive fist in the same instant. Conan blocked the blow, winding his arm around the shaven-headed man’s to pull him close. With hammer-like blows the Cimmerian pounded the big man’s body, feeling ribs splinter beneath his fist.
In the night a trumpet sounded the Ophirean army call for the attack. “Company one, ready torches!” a voice called. “Company two, attack! Take no prisoners!” Feet pounded on the floors above; frantic yells rose.
In his desperate struggle Conan had no time to worry about the new danger. Jamaran smashed his head against the Cimmerian’s; Conan staggered, clinging to consciousness. The huge Kushite tried to enfold Conan once more in his crushing embrace, but Conan rammed a knee into his crotch, lifting the man to his toes with bulging eyes. Like thunderbolts the heels of Conan’s hands struck Jamaran’s chin. The shaven head went back with a loud crack as the Kushite’s neck broke, and he fell in a boneless heap.
Conan ripped the gag from his mouth and threw it atop the body of the man who had threatened to beat him to death. A torch was thrust through one of the arrow slits, then another. Putting a hand on the table top Conan vaulted across it to grab his sword hilt, baring the blade by slinging the worn shagreen scabbard away. When soldiers spoke of taking no prisoners they generally slew whatever moved, without questioning whether it was enemy or captive. Conan did not mean to die easily.
A man darted in at the door, sword ready; Conan swung his steel … and stopped a handsbreadth away from splitting Machaon’s skull. Narus rushed in behind the grizzled veteran, and two more of the company.
“You!” Conan exclaimed. “You are the Ophirean army?”
Narus shrugged and held up a battered brass trumpet. “An odd talent of mine, but useful from time to time.” He looked around at the bodies on the stone floor. “Once more you leave nothing for the rest of us.”
“There are more above,” Conan said, but Narus shook his head.
“They lept from breaks in the walls, thinking we were who we claimed, and fled into the night.”
“We’ve still bloody work to do,” Conan told him. “Karela has been taken prisoner, and I mean to rescue her.” Atop Tor Al’Kiir, he thought. Boros said he had seen lights there, and he had no other clue. “We must move quickly, if you will come with me.”
“Mitra, Conan,” Machaon growled, “will you let me say a word? There’s no time for wenches, not even her. We came after you because Zandru’s Hells have come to sup in Ophir.” “Al’Kiir.” Conan’s heart sank. “They’ve raised the god already.”
“I know naught of gods,” Machaon muttered, “but Valdric lies dead of the sickness that consumed him, and Iskandrian has seized the royal palace.”
Conan started in surprise. “Iskandrian!”
“The old general has declared for Valentius,” Narus explained. “And that young coxcomb has taken the name Maranthes II, as if a name could make him a great king. I hear he didn’t wait for funeral rites or even a priest, but took the crown from Valdric’s corpse before it was cold and put it on his own head.”
“Will you stop your nattering, Narus!” Machaon barked. “Most of the nobles think as you did, Cimmerian. They gather their forces, but Iskandrian moves to put them down before they can. He marched with most of the Ianthe garrison an hour after he put Valentius on the throne. If that isn’t enough, Taurianus is talking loudly that the company should join the nobles. He’s telling everyone if Iskandrian wins it means the end of Free-Companies in Ophir.” His tattooed face grew grim. “I’ll tell you, Conan, he’s right on that. Iskandrian will give short shrift to mercenaries.”
“We’ll worry about Iskandrian later,” Conan said. “Karela comes first, and matters even more important than her. How many of the company did you bring, Machaon?”
“Seven, including Narus and myself, all of whom crossed the Nemedian border with us. Two I left to guard Julia. The mood of the others is bad, Cimmerian. You must return now if you mean to hold them together. Karela can take care of herself for a time if any woman can.”
“We found your black picketed with this lot’s mounts,” Narus added.
“Crom!” Conan muttered. The numbers were not enough if they faced what he feared atop Tor Al’Kiir. “We ride for Ianthe, to gather the company and ride out again. No, not to join the nobles. To Tor Al’Kiir. There’ll be time for questions later. To horse, Erlik blast your hides. To horse, and pray to whatever gods you can think of that we are in time.”
19
Iron-shod hooves struck sparks from paving stones as Conan galloped through the dark and empty streets of Ianthe, seven men trailing behind with their cloaks standing out in the wind of their charge. Atop the malevolent granite hump of Tor Al’Kiir torches flickered, distant points of light in the moonless sky mocking his efforts at haste. He cursed to himself, regretting even the time it had taken to bribe the gate-watch for entry.
He wanted to shout at the sleepers who felt a momentary safety behind their walls of brick and stone. Mourning cloths draped from shuttered windows and shrouded public fountains; sprigs of sa’karian, black and white berries intermixed as symbol of death and rebirth, adorned every door. The capital of Ophir mourned its dead King in fear and uncertainty, yet none in that city knew that what they felt was as a flickering lamp flame to the storm-lashed fire-death of a great forest beside the terror that awaited their wakening.
As he galloped through the archway of the house where his company was quartered, Conan bellowed. “To me! Out with you, and to horse! Move, damn you to Zandru’s Hells!” Stillness lay heavily on the blackened building; his words echoed hollowly from the courtyard walls as the others clattered in behind him. “Taurianus!” he called. “Boros!”
A door open with the protest of rusty hinges, showing a tiny light, and four figures moved into the court. Slowly the shadowy shapes resolved into Boros, Julia, and two of his company holding shielded lanterns. The armored men were the two remaining besides those behind him who had come with him from Nemedia.
“Where are the others?” Conan demanded.
“Gone,” Boros answered hollowly. “Taurianus —Erlik roast his soul for eternity—convinced most of them you were dead, since you didn’t return. Half followed him to join the nobles againt Iskandrian. The rest?” His thin shoulders shrugged. “Faded away to hide as best they can. Without you, fear corroded their hearts.”
Conan fought the urge to rain curses upon Taurianus’ head. There was no time; the torches still burned atop the mo
untain. What must be done, must be done with the men he had. But he would lead no man blind to face sorcerers, and perhaps a god.
“Boros,” he said grimly, “tell of Al’Kiir. But briefly, old man. The time of his coming is near, perhaps before first light, if we do not stop it.”
Boros gasped and, tugging at his beard, spoke in a quavering voice, filled with all his years, of days before even ancient Ophir existed and the rites of Al’Kiir, of the Circle of the Right-Hand Path and the imprisonment of the demonic god, of those who would bring the abominable worship again into the world and the god whose horror they celebrated. When he was done there was silence, broken only by the call of an owl. Each man’s breath was audible, and they all spoke of fear.
“If we go to Iskandrian with this tale,” Conan said finally, “he will think it a ruse of the nobles and slay us, or emprison us for madmen until it is too late. But every word is as true and as dire as a spear thrust to the heart. Boros has told you what comes, what fate may lie in store for your sister, or wife or daughter, because she is comely and spirited. I ride to Tor Al’Kiir to stop it. Who rides with me?”
For a long moment only silence answered him, then Julia stepped forward, her chin held high. “If there is no courage among these who call themselves men, at least I will go with you.”
“You will go to your sleeping mat,” Machaon growled, “or I’ll bind you in such a package as Karela made of you, to keep you safe against my return.” The girl moved hurriedly behind Boros, eyeing the grizzled mercenary warily as if unsure how much of his threat he meant. Machaon nodded with satisfaction, then turned in his saddle to Conan. “I’ve seen more of wizards following you, Cimmerian, than one man has a right to expect in a lifetime. But I cannot see that once more will make any difference.”
“An owl calling on a moonless night means death,” Narus said glumly, “but I’ve never seen a god. I, too, ride with you, Cimmerian.”
One by one, then, the other seven mercenaries pledged to follow also, voices cold with humiliation at being surpassed in courage by a girl, with anger and determination to protect some particular woman from the bloody rites. And still with fear. Yet they would come.
Conan eyed their scant number in the pale light of the lanterns and sighed. “We will be enough,” he said, as much to convince himself as anything else, “because we must. We must. Claran, Memtes, get your horses.” The two men named set their lanterns on the ground and ran for the stables. “We ride as soon as they return,” he went on. “We must needs scale the mountain afoot, for our horses cannot climb those slopes, but—”
“Wait, Conan,” Boros broke in. “Make haste slowly, or you but hasten to your death. You must acquire the Staff of Avanrakash.”
“There is no time, old man,” Conan said grimly. He twisted impatiently in his saddle to peer through the night toward the deeper blackness of Tor Al’Kiir. The torch lights still were there, beckoning him, taunting him to his core. What befell Karela while he sat his horse like a statue?
“Do you go forth to confront a lion,” the bearded man chided, “would you then say there was no time to fetch spear or bow? That you must face it with bare hands? You go to face Al’Kiir. Think your courage and steel will avail you against a god? As well slit your own throat right here.”
Conan’s massive hands tightened on the reins in frustration until his knuckles cracked. He did not fear death, though he sought it no more than any other man, but his death would be of no use if Karela were still sacrificed, if Al’Kiir was freed again. Decision came swiftly, spurred by necessity. He tossed his reins to Machaon and dismounted.
“Take my horse with you to the mountain,” he commanded as he tugged his hauberk off over his head. Such work as he had now to do was not best done in armor. He dropped to the gound to pull off his boots. “I will meet you at the crossroads at the foot of the mountain.”
“Do you know where this staff the old man speaks of is to be found?” Machaon asked.
“In the throne room,” Boros said. “By ancient law, at the death of a King the scepter and crown must be left on the throne for nine days and nine nights. Valentius has usurped custom by donning the crown so quickly, but he will not dare flout it altogether.”
“The royal palace!” Machaon exclaimed. “Cimmerian, you are mad to think you can enter there. Come! We will do the best we can with honest steel.”
“I was a thief once,” Conan replied. “Twill not be the first palace I’ve entered by ways other than the door.” Stripped now to his breechcloth, he slung his swordbelt across his massive chest so that his sword hung down his back, dagger and pouch beneath his left arm. Claran and Memtes trotted their horses from the stable, hooves ringing on the thick slates of the court. “I will be at the crossroads, with the staff,” the Cimmerian said, “without fail. Be you there also.”
With ground-eating pantherish strides, Conan loped into the night. Behind him Machaon and the others clattered out of the courtyard and turned their mounts in the other direction, toward the North Gate, but he was already one with the darkness, a deadly ghost racing through unlit streets that were empty of other human forms. Every door was barred, every window shuttered, as the inhabitants of the city cowered in fear of what might come; only occasional scavenging dogs, gaunt-ribbed and half-wild, prowled the moonless streets, and they shied away from the huge shape that shared the way with them. Beneath his leathery-soled feet the paving stones felt like the rocks of his native Cimmeria, and the feel gave wings to his stride as when he raced up mountains as a boy. His great lungs pumped with the effort of his running, for this time he raced not for the pride of winning, but for Karela, and for every woman who would lose life or more if he failed.
Again an owl cried, and Conan’s mind went to Narus’ words. Perhaps the cry did mean death, his or someone else’s. Crom, the fierce god of the harsh and icy land where he was born, gave a man life and will, but the grim Lord of the Mound never promised that life would be long, nor that will would always prevail. A man could but fight. and keep fighting so long as breath or life remained.
The Cimmerian did not slow until the massive walls of the royal palace loomed before him, crenelations and towertops only shadows against the ebon sky. The thick, iron-sheathed gates were closed and barred, the portcullis down, but he spared not a glance in that direction. Such was not his means of entry this night.
His fingers felt across the surface of the wall, featureless in the blackness. Long centuries past had the great wall been built, of stones each weighing more than twenty times as much as a big man. Only the largest trebuchet could hurl boulders weighty enough to trouble its solidity, but Conan did not mean to batter a way through. Those years had leeched at the mortar between the great stones, leaving gaps that made an easy path for one mountain-born.
With agile sureness Conan climbed, fingers and toes searching out the grooves where wind and rain and time had worn away the mortar, mighty muscles straining to pull him up where there was but room for fingernails to grip. Below was only the long, bone-shattering drop to pavement now swathed in the night, yet he did not slow in his swift ascent of that sheer wall. Time pressed on him too greatly to allow room for caution.
At the top of the wall he paused between two tall merlons topped with stone leopards, ears straining for the scuff of boots on the rampart, the creak of leather and armor. A combat there with guards would surely doom his quest before it had truly begun. There was no sound. Conan drew himself through the crennel. No guards were atop the wall. The palace was silent as a tomb. It seemed Iskandrian had left only men for the gates; the White Eagle would strike hard, as was his wont.
From the rampart a curving ramp led down toward the outer bailey. There, however, he would surely be seen, no matter how few guards had been left behind or how many servants hid in fear that too-ardent service to him who now wore the crown might be punished if he lost it. Rooftops must be his path. The nearest, a wing of the palace, lay but an easy jump from the ramp for a vigorous man.
Easy if the approaching run could be made on level ground rather than down a steep ramp, and if a three-story drop to the granite paving of the bailey were ignored.
Conan measured distances and angles, then took a deep breath and sprinted down the ramp. At the sixth great stride he flung himself across the chasm. Fingertips caught at the edge of the roof. One tile broke free, spiraling into the dark to shatter on the stones below; for an instant the Cimmerian hung by one hand. Slowly he hauled himself up, swung to hook a leg over the edge. The tile he held to shifted under his hand. Then he was flat on the roof, carefully setting aside the loose tile and quieting his breath as he waited to see if the noise of the first tile’s fall drew attention. Still nothing stirred.
Like a jungle beast Conan was up and running, feet sure on the slanting tiles, climbing granite gargoyles to a higher level, leaping from a balcony tiled in black and white marble to clutch at a high peaked gable, edging with chest pressed flat against smooth granite along a ledge wide enough only for the balls of his feet, then climbing again, past mullioned windows and trefoils, until at last he scrambled through a narrow ventilation arch and looked down from great height on the vast throne room of the royal palace.
Great golden lamps hung on thick chains of the same metal from the vaulted ceiling, their bright flames lighting well the floor far below, a floor mosaicked in huge representations of the leopards and eagles that were the royal symbols of Ophir. In the middle of that floor was a blackshrouded bier on which Valdric’s body lay in state, clothed in ornate robes of gold embroidered purple set with pearls. No living man was there to keep vigil over the dead King.