Conan and The Mists of Doom

Dawn came to the valley, and consciousness to Bethina at about the same 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 owed their lives to the women as much as they did to Conan.

Conan, Bamshir, and a band of fighters that included a few Maidens marched down into the valley as soon as they could travel safely. Even the Maidens who had spent much time there seemed bemused at the changes, and wanted to stop and gape so long that Conan needed brisk words to move them along.

They did not find the Lady until the sun was nearly overhead. They also found Muhbaras, lying beside the Lady, an arm thrown protectively across her. Furrows in the ground showed that the Khorajan had crawled to the Lady from where he had first fallen. How he had done this with two death wounds upon him, Conan did not expect even the gods to know.

He knelt by Muhbaras, sponging his blood-caked lips and listening to the man's last words.

"I—Ermik killed her. That—loosed—what you fought. Are—are the men safe?"

"All who reached the gate yet live, Captain," Bamshir said.

"Good." Muhbaras was silent for so long that Conan thought he had died. 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 golden eyes?"

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 the Lady.

Golden eyes? The Lady of the Mist's eyes were larger than most, but they 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 drowned in—and called himself happy in doing so.

At least Conan now understood how a common man could love a sorceress. One did not love the sorceress. One found the woman inside the sorceress, and loved her.

Conan stood up. The Maidens had drawn apart, to keen and wail for their 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—or would 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. "Also the Lady's—and I think the valley will be the better for it, if her spirit sleeps content."

Epilogue

Conan rode west again, but this time he was alone. As he looked eastward, to where only the highest peaks of the Kezankian Mountains pierced the horizon, he recalled memories of this latest adventure.

The last two in particular made him smile, and more warmly than was the Cimmerian's custom.

He remembered his final conversation with Bethina. Deciding that she neither could nor would return to her tribe, she had vowed to stay in the Valley of the Mists and become chieftess of a new tribe.

An odd mixture, that tribe would be—the survivors of Khorajan soldiers, tribesmen, Afghulis, Maidens, and the peasants. Not a bad one, though—all of them were proven hardy and industrious, and able to fight when necessary.

"Well enough that while I would still invite you to stay," Bethina said, "I cannot imagine that we need you. Nor would you be happy, which is why I chose Farad even though you were my first man. In your soul you are a loosefoot, although an honest one."

Conan had laughed then. "Ask in Zamboula sometime, and they will tell you how honest Conan the Cimmerian was. Only do not tell them that you are my friend, or they may arrest you on suspicion of receiving stolen goods!"

Then there was the night Conan had used those thief's skills to regain his jewels from Khezal. After all, a man was entitled to a trifle of reward for a mission of such service to Turan, as well as traveling expenses to his next destination.

The reinforcements were up by then, with an array of elegant young captains who swore mighty oaths of frustration when they learned that the victory had been gained without them. It would have been as much as the Cimmerian's life was worth to remain in the camp long, and Khezal had not 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 handful of 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 serving him, but without such wise heads, he would be a rampaging monster equal to the Lady's Mists of Doom.

Conan laughed again, in his usual harsh way, at the idea of his wishing Yezdigered any kind of good fortune. Then he prodded his mount to a canter. It was time to be off to Koth and whatever fortune its brewing wars might bring him.

_______________________________

CONAN

AND THE

MISTS OF DOOM

ROLAND GREEN

TOR

A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

NEW YORK

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

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

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

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

Cover art by Keegan

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ISBN: 0-812-52494-2

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