Conan The Valiant

CONAN THE VALIANT

by

Roland Green

Conan drew back as far as the hall would allow. When he plunged forward, he was like an avalanche on a steep slope. The bolt was made to resist common men, not Cimmerians of Conan's size and strength. The bolt snapped like a twig and the door crashed open.

Conan flew into the room, nearly stumbling over Illyana, who knelt at the foot of the bed. She clutched the bedclothes with both hands and had a corner of the blanket stuffed into her mouth.

She wore only the Jewel of Khurag in its ring on her left arm. The Jewel seared Conan's eyes with emerald flame.

"Don't touch her!" Raihna cried.

"She needs help!"

"You will hurt, not help, if you touch her now!"

Conan hesitated, torn between desire to help someone clearly suffering and trust in Raihna's judgment. Illyana settled the question by slumping into a faint. As she fell senseless, the flame in the Jewel died.

The Adventures of Conan published by Tor Books

CONAN THE BOLD by John Maddox Roberts

CONAN THE CHAMPION by John Maddox Roberts

CONAN THE DEFENDER by Robert Jordan

CONAN THE DEFIANT by Steve Perry

CONAN THE DESTROYER by Robert Jordan

CONAN THE FEARLESS by Steve Perry

CONAN THE HERO by Leonard Carpenter

CONAN THE INVINCIBLE by Robert Jordan

CONAN THE MAGNIFICENT by Robert Jordan

CONAN THE MARAUDER by John Maddox Roberts

CONAN THE RAIDER by Leonard Carpenter

CONAN THE RENEGADE by Leonard Carpenter

CONAN THE TRIUMPHANT by Robert Jordan

CONAN THE UNCONQUERED by Robert Jordan

CONAN THE VALIANT by Roland Green

CONAN THE VALOROUS by John Maddox Roberts

CONAN THE VICTORIOUS by Robert Jordan

CONAN THE WARLORD by Leonard Carpenter

and coming soon:

CONAN THE INDOMITABLE by Steve Perry

To L. Sprague and Catherine de Camp, with respect and gratitude, and with special thanks to the Guild of Exotic Dancers of the Middle Kingdom of the Society for Creative Anachronism, Incorporated.

Prologue

SUNSET TINTED GOLD and crimson the snows of the Lord of the Winds, monarch of the Ibars Mountains. Twilight had already swallowed its lower slopes, while night shrouded the valleys.

Bora, son of Rhafi, lay behind a boulder and studied the valleys before him. Three stretched away from the foot of the Lord, like the spokes of a cartwheel. Mist rose from all. Had he been citybred, given to such fancies. Bora might have discerned monstrous shapes already forming out of the mist.

Instead, Bora's family had been shepherds and wolf-hunters in the village of Crimson Springs, when the forebears of King Yildiz of Turan were petty lordlings. These mountains held no strangeness for him.

Or rather, they had not, until two moons before. Then the tales began. In one valley, the mists turned green each night. Those who ventured into the valley to see why did not return, except for one who returned mad, babbling of demons unleashed.

Then people began to disappear. Children at first—a girl filling water jugs by a lonely stream, a shepherd boy taking food to his father in the pasture, a baby snatched while his mother bathed. Never was there any trace of the reavers, save for a foul stench that made the dogs turn away howling and sometimes a footprint that might have been human, if humans had claws a finger long.

Then grown men and women began to vanish. No village was spared, until people dared not leave their houses after dark and went about even in daylight in stout, armed bands. It was said that caravans struggling over the passes and even patrols of Yildiz's soldiers had lost men.

Mughra Khan, Yildiz's military governor, heard the tales but doubted them, at least where the villages were concerned. He saw nothing but rebellion looming and his duty clear: to put it down.

He was not such a fool as to arrest men at random and try to persuade the Seventeen Attendants that they were rebels. The Seventeen were not fools either. Mughra Khan strengthened his outposts, arrested the few men who protested, and waited for the rebels to either strike or skulk back into their lairs.

Neither rebels nor anything else human did either. But entire outposts began to disappear. Sometimes a few bodies remained behind, gutted like sheep, beheaded, dismembered by more than human strength. Once, two men reached safety—one dying, both mad and babbling of demons.

This time, the tales of demons were believed.

Of course Mughra Khan continued to believe in rebels as well. He saw no reason why both could not be menacing the peace and order of Turan. Messengers rode posthaste to Aghrapur, with requests for advice and aid.

What fate those messengers might meet, Bora did not know, and hardly cared. He was more concerned about the fate of his father, Rahfi. Rahfi accused some soldiers of stealing his sheep. The next day the soldiers' comrades arrested him as "a suspected rebel."

What fate suspected rebels might meet, Bora knew too well. He also knew that pardons often came to those whose kin had well served Turan. If he learned the secret of the demon reavers, might that not procure his father's release?

It would be good if Rahfi could be home in time to attend his daughter Arima's wedding. Though not as fair as her younger sister Caraya, Arima would bear the carpenter of Last Tree many fine sons, with Mitra's favor.

Bora shifted slightly, without dislodging so much as a pebble. It might be a long wait, studying these nighted valleys.

Master Eremius made a peremptory gesture. The servant scurried forward, holding the ornately-shaped chased silver vials of blood in either hand. Thos hands were filthy, Eremius noted.

Eremius snatched the vials from the servant and plunged them into the silk pouch hanging from his belt of crimson leather. Then he struck the rock at his feet with his staff and threw up his left hand, palm outward. The rock opened. Water gushed, lifting the servant off his feet, then casting him down, gasping and whimpering for mercy. Eremius let the water flow until the servant was as clean in person and garments as was possible without flaying him.

"Let that be a lesson to you," Eremius said.

"It is a lesson, Master," the man gasped, and departed faster than he had come.

The wet rock slowed Eremius not at all as he descended into the valley. His long-toed feet were bare and hard as leather, seeking and finding safe holds without the least spell bringing light. At the foot of the path two more servants stood holding torches. The torches were of common rushes, but burned with a rubicund light and a hissing like angry serpents.

"All is well, Master."

"So be it."

They followed him as he climbed the other side of the valley to the Altar of Transformation. He wished to arrive in time to correct whatever was not indeed well. The assurances of his servants told him little, except that the Altar had not been carried away by vultures or any of tonight's Transformations escaped.

Ah, would that Illyana was still friend and ally, or that he had snatched the other Jewel of Kurag from her before she fled! Then it would have mattered little whether she escaped or not. Before she found any way to oppose him, the twin Jewels would have given him irresistible power, both in his own right and through human allies.

Eremius nearly thought a curse upon Illyana. He quickly banished the impulse. The magic he used in a Transformation was unforgiving of anything less than total concentration. Once, he had sneezed in the middle of a Transformation and found its subject leaping from the Altar, partly transformed and wholly beyond his control. He had to summon other Transformations to slay it.

The Altar seemed part of the hillside itself, as in truth it was. Eremius had conjured it into being out of the very rock, a seamless slab as high as a man's waist and twelve paces on a side. Around the edge of the slab ran in high relief the runes of a powerful warding spell.

Like the runes on the great golden ring on Eremius's left forearm, these runes were an ancient Vanir translation of a still more ancient Atlantean text. Even among sorcerers, few knew of these or any of the other spells concerning the Jewels of Kurag. Many doubted the very existence of the spells.

Eremius found this to his advantage. What few believe in, fewer still will seek.

He stepped up to the Altar and contemplated the Transformation. She was a young village woman, fully of marriageable age and exceedingly comely, had Eremius been concerned about such things. The whole of her clothing was a silver ring about her roughly-cropped dark hair and silver chains about her wrists and ankles. The chains held her spread-eagled on the slab, but not so tightly that she could not writhe from side to side in an obscene parody of passion. In spite of the night chill, sweat glazed her upthrust breasts and trickled down her thighs. Her eyes held shifting tints that made them look now ebony dark, now silver gray, then the fiery tint of a cat's eyes seen by firelight.

Indeed, all seemed well. Certainly there was nothing to be gained by waiting. Eight more Transformations awaited him tonight, nine more recruits for his army.

Soon he could bargain from strength, with the ambitious or the discontented at the court of Turan. No court ever lacked for such, and the court of Turan had more than most. Once they were his allies, he could set them in search of the other Jewel. Illyana could not hide forever.

Then the twin Jewels would be his, and bargaining at an end. It would be time for him to command and for the world to obey.

He raised his left hand and began to chant. As he chanted, the Jewel began to glow. Above the Altar the mists took on an emerald hue.

Bora's breath hissed between his teeth. The mist in the westernmost valley was turning green. It was also the nearest valley. In daylight he could have reached it in an hour, for he was as keen-sighted by night as by day. Tonight, speed was not his goal. Stealth was what he needed, for he was a wolf seeking prey—an odd fate for a shepherd, but Mitra would send what Mitra chose.

Bora sat up and unwrapped the sling from around his waist. In the dry mountain air, the cords and leather cup had not stretched. In the mist-shrouded valley, it might have been otherwise; still, he could face anything but heavy rain. He had practiced almost daily with the sling, ever since he was no taller than it was long.

From a goatskin pouch he drew a piece of dry cheese and five stones. Since he was fourteen, Bora could tell the weight and balance of a stone by tossing it thrice in either hand. He had studied and chosen these five stones as carefully as if he were going to wed them.

His fingers told him that none of the stones were chipped. One by one he eased them back into the pouch, along with the last crumb of cheese. Then he tied the pouch back at his waist, picked up his staff, and started down the mountain.

It was no marvel that the mist turned the color of emeralds. The light pouring from the great stone in the ring was of such a hue. The stone itself might have been taken for an emerald the size of a baby's fist. Some men had done so. Two had been thieves; both would have preferred King Yildiz's executioners to what actually befell them.

Whether the Jewels of Kurag were natural or creations of sorcery, no living man knew. That secret lay beneath the waves, among the coral-armored ruins of Atlantis. For Master Eremius, it was enough to know the secrets of the Jewels' powers.

He chanted the first spell in a high-pitched singsong that might have been mistaken for the tongue of Khitai. As he chanted, he felt the vials of blood grow warm against his skin, then cool again. Their preservation spells were set aside. Now to make them his instruments of Transformation.

He set the first vial on the Altar beside the young woman. The herb-steeped cloth forced into her mouth had sapped her will but not destroyed it. Her eyes rolled back, wide with terror, as she saw the blood in the vial begin to glow. A faint moan forced its way through the cloth.

Eremius chanted three guttural monosyllables, and the lid of the vial flew into the air. He struck the Altar, five times with his staff, and chanted the same syllables twice more.

The vial floated into the air and drifted over the girl. Eremius' staff rose like an asp ready to strike. The light from the Jewel became a single beam, bright enough to dazzle any mortal eye unshielded by magic.

With a flick of his wrist, Eremius directed the beam straight at the vial. It quivered, then overturned. The blood rained down on the girl, weaving a pattern like silver lace across her skin. Her eyes were now wider than ever, but no thought now lay behind them.

Holding his staff level, Eremius passed it and the beam of light over the girl's body, from head to toe. Then he stepped back, licked his dry lips, and watched the Transformation.

The girl's skin turned dark and thick, then changed into scales, overlapping like plates of fine armor. Great pads of muscle and bone grew across her joints. Her feet and hands grew hard edges, then ridged backs, and claws a finger long.

The spell did not alter the structure of the face as much as the rest of the body. Scaly skin, pointed ears, pointed teeth, and eyes like a cat's still turned it into a grotesque parody of humanity.

At last, only the eyes moved in what had been a woman. Eremius made another pass with his staff alone, and the chains fell from wrists and ankles. The creature rose uncertainly to its hands and knees, then bowed its head to Eremius. Without hesitation or revulsion, he laid his hand upon the head. The hair fell away like dust, and the silver ring clattered upon the stone.

Another Transformation was accomplished.

From the darkness beyond the Altar stalked three more of the Transformed. Two had been purchased as slaves, one a captured caravan guard; all had been men. It was Eremius's experience that women fit for a Transformation were seldom found unguarded. Girls to yield up their blood for the Transformation of others were easier to come by.

The three Transformed lifted their new comrade to her feet. With a wordless snarl she shook off their hands. One of them cuffed her sharply across the cheek. She bared her teeth. For a moment Eremius feared he might have to intervene.

Then a familiar recognition filled the new

Transformed's eyes. She knew that for better or for worse, these beings were her chosen comrades in the service of Master Eremius. She could not deny them. Whatever she had worshipped before, she now worshipped only Eremius, Lord of the Jewel.

Eyes much less keen than Bora's could have made out the sentries at the head of the valley. Although no soldier, he still knew that they would bar entry that way. Nor was he surprised. The master of the demon light in the valley would not be hospitable to visitors.

With sure, steady paces, Bora passed along the ridge to the south of the valley. He reached a point halfway between the mouth and the source of the light. It seemed to lie in the open, not within one of the caves that honeycombed the valley's walls.

Below Bora's feet now lay a cliff two hundred paces high and steep enough to daunt the boldest of goats. It was not enough to daunt Bora. "You have eyes in your fingers and toes," they said of him in the village, for he could climb where no one else could.

To be sure, he had never climbed such a cliff in the dark, but never had he hoped to win so much or had so little to lose. The family of a convicted rebel would be fortunate indeed if Mughra Khan did no worse than to exile them.

Bora studied the cliff as far as he could see, picking out the first part of his route. Then he lowered himself over the edge and began his descent.

By the time he was halfway down, his hands were sweating and all his limbs had begun to tremble. He knew he should not be so tired so soon. Was the sorcery of the light-maker sapping his strength?

He drove the thought away. It could only bring fear, which would sap his strength and wits alike. He found a foothold, shifting first his right and then his left foot to it, then sought the next.

Below, the emerald light came and went. It now seemed to be a beam, like a lantern's. When it shone, he thought he saw dim figures in a ragged circle. Their form seemed other than human, but that might be the mist.

At last he reached a ledge of rock wide enough for sitting. To the right, toward the light, the cliff plunged straight to the valley floor, and the ledge vanished. Only a bird could find its way down there.

To the left, the slope was much easier. A carrion reek hinted of a lion's den, but lions were hard to rouse at night. Halfway down the slope, a sentry paced back and forth, a short bow on his shoulder and a tulwar in his hand.

Bora unwound the sling from inside his shirt: That sentry had to die. Unless he were deaf, he would hear Bora climbing down behind him. Even if Bora passed him going down, he would be well-placed to cut off retreat.

A stone dropped into the cup. The sling rose and whirred into motion, until no human eye could have seen it. Nor could any human ear more than fifty paces away have heard its sound.

The sentry was thrice that far. He died between one heartbeat and the next, never knowing what flew out of the night to crush his skull. His tulwar flew out of his hand and clattered down the slope.

Bora stiffened, waiting for some sign that the sentry's comrades might have heard the clatter. Nothing moved but the mist and the emerald light. He crept along the ledge, half-crouching, the loaded sling in one hand.

The carrion reek grew, clawing at his nose and chest. He took shallow breaths, which helped little. There was more than carrion in that reek. Ordure and filth he dared not name lay behind it. No lion laired here. The thought of sorcery returned, this time not to depart.

Perhaps that thought saved his life by sharpening his ears. He heard the clawed feet on the rocks while their owners were still inside their cave. He was already recoiling when they burst into the open.

There was nothing dim about those shapes, for they shone with their own light. It was the same emerald demon-light that had drawn Bora into the valley. Now it showed monstrous travesties of men—taller, broader, scaled and clawed, their eyes blazing and fanged mouths gaping wide.

They neither spoke nor made any sound as they rushed toward Bora. They did something far worse, reaching into his very thoughts.

Stay a while, lad. Stay a while, and have the honor of serving us who serve the Master. Stay, stay.

Bora knew that if he obeyed for even a moment, he would lose the will to leave. Then he would indeed serve the servants of the Master, as the lamb serves the wolf.

His sling moved as if his arm had its own will. The being's skull was of more than human thickness, but then, the range was short. The stone drove in deep above the right eye, flinging the being into the arms of the one behind it. They toppled together.

The rearmost leaped over his fallen comrades. Bora felt his will attacked once more:

Obey me, or lose pleasures and treasures undreamed of by those who do not serve the Master.

In truth, Bora had never dreamed that being eaten alive could be a pleasure. He saw no cause to think otherwise now. His feet and hands carried him up the cliff as if they were wings.

The being hissed like a snake. Raw rage tore at Bora's mind. Almost, his fingers abandoned their search for holds.

The being leaped high, its clawed hands searching for Bora's ankles, its clawed feet scrabbling for a hold. It found neither. The being slid down, overbalanced, and toppled backward off the ledge. A final desperate hiss ended in a thud and the sliding of a body on stone.

Bora did not stop, and barely breathed until he reached level ground. Even then, he only stopped long enough to reload his sling. He had heard in tales the words "as if demons were after him." Now he knew their meaning far too well.

If he lived to return home and find anyone to believe his tale, he would have the secret of the mountain demons.

Unseen behind him, the beam of emerald light abruptly died.

When Eremius stood at the Altar, he closed his ears. He remained deaf to the falling tulwar. Only the call of the Transformed reached him, appealing to whomever they saw before them. Their appeal, then the death cries of first one, then the second.

Eremius shivered as if he were standing naked in the wind from a glacier. The syllables of the Transformation Spell grew muddled. On the slab, the nearly-complete Transformed writhed. Muscles writhed and heaved, strengthened by magic and driven by madness.

The ankle chains snapped first. Flying links scattered like sling stones. The Transformed rolled, freeing first one wrist, and then the other. It was on its hands and knees when Eremius launched his staff like a spear, smiting the Transformed across the forehead.

Eremius flinched at the cry in his mind. The Transformed sprang to its feet in one convulsion, then toppled off the Altar. It rolled over on its back, kicking and writhing. Then its outlines softened, as scales and claws, muscle and bone sagged into red- and green-streaked jelly. The jelly turned to liquid, and the liquid sank into the rock, leaving a greenish-black stain. Even with his human senses dulled, Eremius gagged at the stench.

He turned from the Altar, letting his arms fall to his sides. His concentration was broken, his spells uncontrolled, the night's Transformations ended.

A captain of sentries hurried forward and knelt. "Revered Master, Kuris has been found slain. A stone fell from the cliff and struck him on the head. Two of the Transformed are also slain, one by another stone and the other by a fall."

"A stone—?" Rage and contempt drove Eremius beyond speech. Those dead Transformed were pursuing some intruder when they died. One now probably beyond reach, thanks to this witling's blindness.

The staff came down on the captain's shoulders, twice on each side. He only flinched. Unless Eremius willed it so, the staff held no magic. The captain would still have bruises.

"Go!"

Alone, Eremius raised both hands to the sky and shrieked curses. He cursed the sorcerers of ancient Atlantis, who found or made the Jewels of Kurag so strong together and so weak apart. He cursed the weakness of his Jewel, that forced him to use such human servants. If they were not witlings by nature, they had to be made such lest they escape his control.

Above and beyond all else, he cursed Illyana. Had she been more loyal to him, or less shrewd in her escape—

Such thoughts were as futile now as ever. Bossonia was ten years gone and as unchangeable as the Ibars Mountains. It was the future that held hope—hope of human allies, who might still crown his quest with victory.

Bora stalked out of the gray dawn and into Crimson Springs before anyone was awake to see him. Before his own house, he stopped. Did he hear the sound of lamentation from within?

He knocked. The door opened a crack. His sister Caraya appeared. Red eyes and a puffy, tear-streaked face marred her beauty.

"Bora! Where have you been?"

"In the mountains. Caraya, what is it? Have they executed—?"

"No, no! It is not Father. It is Arima. The demons took her!"

"The demons—"

"Bora, have you been out all night? I said, the demons took Arima!" Suddenly she was pressing her face into his shoulder, weeping again.

He patted her hair awkwardly and tried to urge her inside. It finally took both him and Yakoub: Bora helped her to a chair, while Yakoub shut the door. From the other room, the sound of lamentation began again.

"Your mother mourns," Yakoub said. "The other children—the neighbors have taken them in."

"Who are you, to play host in this house?" Bora asked. He had never quite trusted Yakoub, who was too handsome and too clearly city-bred, although a good man with the stock. He had come to Crimson Springs two years before, speaking of enemies in Aghrapur. His skill with the animals had made him welcome enough, and not only in Crimson Springs. Nor had he gone against the customs of his hosts.

"Who are you, to turn away help?" Caraya snapped. "Will you play master in this house, if it takes bread from the mouths of your kin?"

Bora raised his hands, feeling more helpless than usual in the face of his sister's tongue. It was not the first time he agreed with Iskop the Smith, who said that Caraya's tongue was deadlier than any weapon he had ever forged.

"Forgive me, Cara. I—I have not slept this night, and my wits are dulled."

"You look weary," Yakoub said. He grinned. "I hope she was worth it."

"If you spent the night with—" began Caraya, her voice tight with rage.

"I spent the night learning the secret of the demons," Bora snarled.

After that he lacked no attention. Caraya heated water and wiped his face, hands, and feet while Yakoub listened intently.

"This is not easy to believe," Yakoub said finally.

Bora nearly choked on a mouthful of bread. "Are you calling me a liar?"

"Nothing of the kind. I but state an important truth. What good does it do you to have seen this, if no one believes you?"

Bora felt ready to weep. He had thought of that as he left the valley, but had somehow forgotten it during the long walk home.

"Do not fear. I—I do not know if I have friends in Aghrapur, after two years. I am sure that my enemies will have enemies, who may listen to me. May I bear word of this to the city?"

Bora gathered his wits. He still did not wholly trust Yakoub. Yet who with the power to send the army into that demon-haunted valley would believe the son of a suspected rebel? A city-bred man with knowledge of Aghrapur the Mighty's mightier intrigues might be heard.

"By the bread and the salt I have eaten in this house," Yakoub said, "by Erlik and Mitra, and by my love for your sister Caraya—"

Again Bora nearly choked. He stared at Caraya. She smiled defiantly. Bora groaned.

"Forgive me," Yakoub said. "I could not make an offer for Caraya until Arima was wed. Now you are a troubled house, in mourning. I will wait until I return from—wherever I must go, to find those who will believe. I swear to do nothing to dishonor the name of the House of Rahfi, and to do everything to secure his release and your reward. Has it struck you, Bora, that you are blessedly lucky to be alive and sane?"

The only reply was a snore. Bora had fallen asleep on the rug, with his back pressed against the wall.

One

AGHRAPUR BEARS MANY names. Some are fit to be written down. Among these are "Aghrapur the Mighty."

"Aghrapur the Splendid," and "Aghrapur the Wealthy." None is a lie, but none is the whole truth, either.

Among men who know this royal city well, one name is thought the most truthful. It is a translation from the tongue of Khitai, for the man who first uttered it was a Khitan. He called Aghrapur "The City Where Anything That Cannot Be Found Does Not Exist Under Heaven."

An unwieldy name, as even its inventor admitted. But also the most truthful name ever given to Aghrapur.

The sun was long down, although the warmth of the day still clung to the stones and tiles. Those who could strolled in their courtyards or opened shutters to catch the breeze from the Vilayet Sea. Few were on the streets, save for the watch or those who had urgent business.

Much of that urgent business was less than lawful. Anything that could be found in Aghrapur could be found by day or by night, but if it was unlawful, it was easier to find it by night.

The captain of mercenaries, known as Conan the Cimmerian, sought nothing unlawful as he loped through the dark streets. He sought only a tavern called the Red Falcon, some of its best wine, a meal, and a wench for the night. Among them, they should take away the sour taste of the day's work.

To himself, Conan admitted that High Captain Khadjar had the right of it, when he said, "Just because you travel to Khitai and escort royal ladies doesn't mean your stones are rubies. You've a company to train. That means taking your share of the new recruits."

"Is a full score of witlings, ploughboys, and thieves really my share, Captain?"

"If you think yours are witlings, talk to Itzhak." Khadjar pushed the wine jug across the table to Conan. "By Black Erlik's beard, Conan, I show my trust in you! I know no captain twice your age who could knock more sense into recruits in less time. You owe it to those poor wretches to teach them what will keep them alive in the face of a Kozaki charge or an Iranistani ambush! Now drink up, hold your tongue, and go pay your debt."

Conan obeyed. He owed Khadjar not only obedience but respect, even when the Captain spoke as if Conan himself were but a recruit. It was Khadjar who had urged his promotion, put him forward for the secret journeys that made his name, and taught him much of what he knew about civilized warfare.

Cimmeria did not breed men who gave their loyalty easily. Its chiefs led by their own prowess and by the consent of the warriors who chose to follow them. Only the valor of those warriors and the remoteness and harsh climate of Cimmeria had kept it free of the rule of some more disciplined race. Cimmeria also did not breed fools who refused loyalty where it was deserved and earned. Khadjar had earned Conan's loyalty, but there was an end to it—for all that, Conan took as much pleasure in drilling recruits as he did in cleaning stables.

The Red Falcon stood near the top of the Street of the Twelve Steps, on the Hill of Madan. Conan climbed the hill with the ease of a hillman on a slope and the sinewy grace of a panther on the prowl. His eyes never ceased to roam from shadowed doorway to alley to rooftop, seeking lurkers. Twice he saw them; each time they let him pass. Robbers might take their chances with the watch; only fools challenged a man they could neither slay nor flee.

Conan's rank would have entitled him to a palanquin, but he never used them, save for when duty required it. He trusted neither the legs nor the tongues of slaves. Besides, he had been a slave himself on the winding road that brought him to Aghrapur.

A patrol of the watch trotted out of the shadows.

"Evening, Captain. Have you seen any trouble abroad?"

"None."

Another profession Conan had followed was that of thief. Thief-catchers, he believed, should do their own searching.

The patrol tramped off. Conan took the stairs at the Eleventh Step in two bounds, splashed water from a fountain on his hands and face, then turned in at the door of the Red Falcon.

"Ho, Conan! You look like a man who lost gold and found brass!"

"Moti, you've drunk too much of your own camel sweat to see anything clearly. Have you never spent a day breaking in new recruits?"

The scarred former sergeant of cavalry grinned. "Enough so that I pray to be an officer in my next life as a soldier."

Conan crossed the room, skirting the center where a pale-skinned Iranistani girl danced to tambourine and drum. She wore only a black silk loinguard, a belt of copper coins, and a shimmering coat of jasmine-scented oil. The rythmic swirling of her hips seemed about to divest her of even these scant garments. Watching her appreciatively, Conan noticed that the nipples of her firm young breasts were rouged. She also seemed able to move those breasts independently of one another.

Moti thrust a massive silver cup in the Vanir style at Conan. It came to the Red Falcon as a pledge for its owner's debt, which he never returned to pay. He was bones bleaching on the Hyrkanian shore, and the cup was Conan's when he drank at the Red Falcon.

"To worthy opponents," Conan said, lifting the cup. Then he pointed at the girl. "New, isn't she?"

"What of our Pyla, Conan?"

"Well, if she's free—"

"I am never free," came a cheerful voice from the stairs. "You know my price, and stop trying to beat it down, you son of a Cimmerian bog-troll!"

"Ah, the beautiful Pyla, as gracious as ever," Conan said. He raised his cup to the raven-haired woman swaying down the stairs. She wore crimson silk pantaloons and carved mother-of-pearl plates over her breasts. Only the ripe curves of those breasts hinted that she was any older than the girl.

"I hardly know why I am gracious, either," Pyla said, with a mock pout. "Everyone insults me, claiming that I am worth no more than a wharfside trull."

"You are worth more, of course," Moti said. "But not as much as you think. Indeed, you would be far richer if you charged much less. I doubt not that thinking of your price unmans half of those who would otherwise knock on your door—"

Moti broke off as five men entered from the street. Four wore leather tunics and trousers, with mail glinting at throats and wrists. Their heavy bronze-studded belts carried swords and short clubs.

The fifth man also wore tunic and trousers, but his were dark green silk, richly embroidered in gold. Gold likewise covered the hilt of his sword. Conan dismissed the party as some young nobleman and his bodyguards, wandering the city in search of pleasure. He doubted they would spoil an honest soldier's drinking if they did not overstay their welcome.

Moti and Pyla seemed to think otherwise. Pyla vanished like smoke, and when Conan turned around it seemed she had taken the dancing girl with her. Moti pulled out his own cure for unruly customers, a shipyard maul that even Conan needed two hands to swing easily. Then he poured wine into Conan's cup until it slopped over the edge.

Very surely the five were not what they seemed to Conan. Just as surely, nothing short of torture would loosen Moti's tongue. Conan moved until he could see the whole room while he spoke to Moti, then drank until the cup no longer overflowed.

"You said you hoped to be an officer the next time?," he prompted the innkeeper.

"If I remember what I learned this time, yes. Otherwise, small honor in being like him." Moti made a silent and subtle gesture at the silk-clad man.

"Best hope you serve under High Captain Khadjar in his next life," Conan said. "He could teach a shark or a hyena."

"I thought he was the one who had you sweating the recruits."

"So he is. He says it's a compliment. Perhaps it is." Conan drank again. "Is there food to be had tonight? Or has your cook been carried off by demons? I'll not take kindly to gnawing oats with your horses—"

As if in answer, Pyla and the Iranistani appeared with loaded trays for the newcomers. Conan saw that both wore loose, nearly opaque robes covering them from throat to ankles, and did not take their eyes off the five men. Neither did Moti, until they were served. Without moving more than his hand, Conan made sure that his sword rested lightly in its scabbard.

"There is no 'perhaps' about it," Moti said. "Conan, if Khadjar thinks you worth teaching, the gods have been generous. Too generous to an outlander, by my way of thinking."

"Yes, yes, O son of a Vendhyan dancing girl," Conan replied. Moti's voice was as brittle as an ill-tempered sword. A sense of danger crept up the Cimmerian's spine like a spider.

"My mother was the greatest dancer of her day," Moti said, "as Khadjar is the greatest soldier of ours." He looked at Conan. "You are—how old?"

"By the Turanian reckoning, twenty-two."

"Ha. The same age as Khadjar's bastard son. Or the age he would have been, had he not died two years ago.

Perhaps Khadjar seeks another son in you. He had no other kin and few friends, save for the boy. It was said, too, that the boy—"

The door opened and a woman entered. She could hardly have drawn more eyes had she risen from the floor in a cloud of crimson smoke, to the blare of trumpets.

She was tall and of a northern fairness, with wide gray eyes and scattered freckles under a tan. In age she was clearly a woman rather than a girl, and her figure could contest honors with Pyla's. Conan's eyes followed the line of her thigh up to the slender waist, then marched across the breasts that strained the brown woolen tunic and rested on the long fine neck.

When he had done this, he saw that the eyes of every other man in the room had marched with his.

The woman took no notice. She strode across the room with a grace that few dancers could have equalled. The men's eyes followed her, but they might have been the eyes of mice for all she seemed to care. Conan doubted that this woman would have broken stride crossing the room even if she had been as bare as a babe.

She reached the bar and said, in accented Turanian, "Honorable Motilal, I would have business with you." Bawdy laughter rippled around the room. She went on, as if blushing was beneath her. "I would buy a jug of wine, bread, cheese, and smoked meat. Any you have ready will do, even horse—"

"Do not insult Moti by thinking he serves horsemeat, good lady," Conan said. "If your purse is somewhat scant…"

The woman's smile did not reach her eyes. "And how am I to repay you?"

"By drinking some of that wine with me, no more."

This woman looked like a goddess in disguise, and could hardly be given to sporting with Cimmerian mercenary officers. She would give no pleasure save to his eyes, but that would be enough.

"If your purse is empty, girl, we can fill it before dawn," a bodyguard said. His comrades joined in the bawdy laughter. Few others did, least of all Conan. They saw the ice in the woman's eyes.

Moti struck the bar with the handle of his maul. The drummer pulled his drums into his lap and began pounding out a sensuous Zamoran beat. "Pyla! Zaria!" Moti shouted. "To work!"

The women whirled onto the floor. The shouting and clapping rose, until the drummer was sweating to make himself heard. First Pyla, then Zaria, threw off their robes. The man in green silk drew his sword and caught Zaria's on the point, without taking his eyes off the northern woman.

Conan considered the man anew. A fop he might be, but likely enough a dangerous one.

A kitchen girl appeared with a rush basket of food and a jug of fine Aquilonian wine. Moti handed them to the woman, counted the coins she drew from inside her belt, then slapped the girl on the rump.

"No more cooking tonight, Thebia. Dancers are what we need!"

In spite of the din, Conan heard in Moti's voice the tone of a man ordering a rearguard to stand and die. The tickling spider-legs of danger on Conan's spine became sharp hooves. Two years ago he would have drawn his sword.

Pyla cast aside her breast plates. They clattered to the floor amid cheers, as the northern woman turned for the door. Conan followed her with his eyes, and saw that the silk-clad man was doing the same. Pyla, Zaria,

and Thebia might have been carrion birds pecking at ox bones for all he saw of them.

The woman could avoid the dancers only by passing close to her watcher and his guards. The man saw that in the same moment as Conan. His fingers did a dance of their own. Conan had taken two steps when one of the guards thrust a thick leg into the woman's path.

In the next moment Conan knew she was a warrior. She dropped both jug and basket to free her hands and save her balance. When she knew that her balance was lost, she twisted in midair and crashed down with both hands free. Rolling, she drew a dagger from one boot and uncoiled like a snake.

The lordling leaped from his chair, one hand on his sword hilt and the other held out in what Conan much doubted was friendship. As his guards also rose, the woman gripped the lordling's hand, then held on as she twisted again. The man's pearl-sewn shoes were no aid on the wine-slick floor. He sat down with a thump.

Conan was now close enough to hear the woman say, "Forgive me, my lord. I only wished—" Two of the guards turned toward him. Conan's instinct to draw his sword seethed and bubbled beneath a skin of civilization.

The lordling contemplated the ruby stains on his clothes, then he contemplated the woman. His voice rose to a screech. "She attacked me! My clothes are ruined! Do your duty!"

The woman had her back to one of the guards. As his comrades drew swords, he drew a club. It came down to meet the flat of Conan's out-thrust sword. Conan's massive right arm easily .held the sword, as the club slid down to strike the woman a glancing blow to her shoulder, instead of a stunning one to her head.

The woman rolled again, giving Conan fighting room. For a moment he had no need of it. The lordling and his guards seemed bemused at being opposed. Conan shot a quick glance at Moti. Sweat streamed from the innkeeper, and his white-knuckled hands gripped the handle of the maul.

Conan much doubted that he would drink again at the Red Falcon. The lordling had put Moti in such fear that he would see an honest customer attacked. Conan would call no man a coward without proof, but neither would he be bound by his host's fears.

"This woman no more attacked you than a she-mouse," Conan growled. "If we're to talk of attacks, what about that great barge of a foot I saw thrust at her?"

The woman unwisely turned to smile at Conan. One guard had recovered his wits. His sword rasped free, thrusting clumsily but hard at the woman. She whirled, enough so that steel intended to pierce her belly only raked her ribs. A red stain spread across the side of her tunic.

The guard nearest to Conan owed his life to the Cimmerian's scruples about cutting down a man who had not yet drawn. A stool, flung like a stone from a catapult, took the guard's legs out from under him. Conan's boot crashed into his ribs, then into his belly. The guard doubled up, trying to spew and breathe and scream all at the same time with precious little success.

By now, more than half of Moti's customers had recalled urgent business elsewhere. One guard retreated among the empty tables and benches. Two others and their master charged Conan, staying close together rather than spreading out. They also took their eyes off the woman.

Bloody ribs and all, the woman sprang onto a vacant table. The closest guard turned on her, his sword snaking toward her thigh.

"Don't kill her, you fool!" the lordling screamed.

The guard's reply was hardly respectful. Conan knew a moment's sympathy for the man. No order could be harder to obey than to take a she-lion alive. No man but a fool gave it, save for better cause than wounded vanity.

The woman drew a second dagger from her boot, then sprang down. She landed so close to the guard that he lacked room to use his sword. Before he could open the distance she locked his sword arm with one dagger, then thrust the point of the other up under his chin. His outraged scream turned into a gurgle as blood sprayed from his nose and mouth.

"Look out, woman! Behind you!"

The guard who had retreated was advancing as his dead comrade took all the woman's attention. Conan could only shout a warning. The lordling and one guard were coming at him. Both seemed to know the curved Turanian sword well enough to demand the Cimmerian's full attention. Greater speed and longer reach could too easily be set at naught by ill-luck.

His warning to the woman might still have been too late. By the gods' favor, the guard tried to obey his lord's orders to take the woman alive. He closed and grappled her from behind, one arm around her throat, one gripping her right arm. She wriggled like an eel, trying to stab backward. His mail turned away one dagger, and he hammered her wrist against the edge of a table until she dropped the other.

Conan's own fight of two against one would have been easier if the three women of the Red Falcon hadn't gone on dancing. They had no one to dance for now, or at least none with eyes to spare for them save for Moti behind the bar and the drummer on his stool. Pyla and Zaria were now wholly nude. The kitchen girl Thebia was bare to the waist Her skirt slid farther down her thighs with each wriggle of her hips. They had been commanded to dance, and would do so until the command came to stop.

"Crom, women! Either give me room or give me help!"

Suddenly the girl's skirt slipped its moorings, slid to the floor, and tangled around her feet. She stumbled and would have fallen, save that she stumbled against the lordling. He thrust her back savagely, forgetting that his free hand now held a dagger. The keen edge scored a long, bloody furrow across her thigh.

She gave a high, shrill wail, clapping one hand to the wound while she cast the skirt wholly aside with the other. This drew the lordling's attention again, a mistake for which his guards paid dearly.

Conan closed with the first and slashed his arm off at the elbow. The second had the woman disarmed and was discovering that was only half the victory when Moti charged out from behind the bar. His maul swung, striking the guard with a glancing blow on the hip. That broke the guard's grip on the woman, freeing her to ram an elbow into his throat. The guard reeled back, clear of another swing of the maul, fell backward over a chair, and crashed to the floor at the feet of the drummer. The drummer lifted one of his drums—Kushite ebony bound with brass—and slammed it down on the fallen man's head. He lay still.

"Now, son of more fathers than you could count with your shoes on—" Conan began.

The lordling looked at Conan as he might have at a horde of demons, dropped his dagger, and bolted out the door. The northern woman stayed just long enough to retrieve her daggers, then also vanished into the night. Still nude, Pyla and Zaria set themselves to binding Thebia's wounds, then turned to the guards.

"No doubt the watch will catch him, if she does not," Conan said.

Moti shook his head. He was now as pale as the Iranistani. The maul thudded to the floor, his hands suddenly unable to grip it.

Conan frowned. The expression had made new recruits tremble. Moti turned paler, if such was possible. "Or is our departed friend in the green silk a royal prince or some such?"

"He—he is not far from that," Moti stammered. "He is the son of Lord Houma."

That name was not altogether unknown to Conan. Houma was one of the Seventeen Attendants, a proven soldier and a great partisan of a larger army and an expanded Turanian empire.

"Then he needs to thrash some manners into that little cockerel. That, or else geld him and sell him for a eunuch, to get some profit from him."

"Conan, I had to be sure the matter was past settling peacefully. It—"

"It was past settling peacefully the moment they laid hands on that woman!" Conan growled. "I'll say so to the watch and anyone else who'll listen, up to King Yildiz himself! If Thebia hadn't been attacked, I might be chasing Houma's pretty pimp of a son through the streets now, hoping to finish him off before the woman did!"

Moti drew in breath like a frog. "That was no attack," he said slowly. "She deliberately drew that stroke, so that I would have to fight.

"By Hanuman's stones, girl, I'll have you out on the streets with a name to make you stay there! And you, Pyla! She'd never have thought of it without you. You're no longer—gkkkhhhh!"

Conan lifted Moti to the top of the bar, picked up the maul, and held the handle in front of the innkeeper's nose.

"Moti, my former friend and host, you have two choices. I can ram this up your arse sideways and leave you that way to explain tonight's matters to the watch. I can also leave you intact and help explain them, in return for a few favors."

Moti licked his lips. "Favors?"

"Your best room free whenever I want it, with food and wine as well. Not the best wine, I'll allow, but enough for me and any company I keep. Oh, yes—and any woman I entertain doesn't have to pay you a single brass piece!"

Moti squalled as if he were already being impaled. Conan's frown and the women's giggles silenced him. He tried to throw up his hands in disgust, but they were shaking too hard to make the gesture convincing.

"Well?"

"As you wish, miner of my name and destroyer of my house. May you have much joy in it, before Lord Houma's men burn it over your head."

"Lord Houma may have fewer but wiser men if he tries that," Conan said. "Now, I want a room tonight, and food and wine for—" He looked at the women.

"One," with a nod to Pyla.

"Two," smiling at Zaria.

Thebia grinned and put her hands behind her back. Her young breasts rose, quivering. Conan pointed at her bandaged thigh. "You want to be the third, with that? Oh, very well. I'm no great hand at arguing with women."

"Just as well, then, that our northern friend took herself off," Pyla said. "Otherwise, she might be joining us. I much doubt that even a Cimmerian can do justice to four!"

Two

"THAT'S A BOW in your hands, you son of a cull!" Conan snapped. "It's not a snake. It won't bite you. Even if it did, that's not half of what I'll do to you if you don't string it now!"

The gangling youth turned the color of the dust underfoot. He looked at the cerulean sky overhead, as if imploring the gods for mercy. Conan drew breath for more advice. The youth swallowed, gripped the bow, and managed to string it, gracelessly but without dropping it again.

One by one, Conan took his recruits through the art of stringing the powerful curved Turanian horsebow. Certainly, some were destined to be midden-sweepers. Others already knew everything that Conan proposed to teach them.

He would not ask how they had learned the bow. Among the mercenaries of Turan, the life of a soldier began the day he took the copper coin of enlistment. What he had been before, no one asked. It was a custom that Conan thought wise, and not only because his own past would not have borne the weight of too much curiosity.

At last Conan spat into the dust and scowled at the men. "Why the gods addled your wits, making you think you could be soldiers, they only know. I don't. So I have to do what King Yildiz pays me for. That's turning you into soldiers, whether you like it or not. Sergeant Garsim! Take them on a run, ten times around the range!"

"You heard the Captain," shouted Garsim, in a voice that could have been heard in King Yildiz's palace. "Run!" He flourished his stick until it whistled, then fell in behind the recruits with a wink to Conan. Although Garsim could have been grandfather to some of the recruits, he could easily outrun any of them.

As the recruits vanished through the gate, Conan sensed someone behind him. Before he could turn, he heard Khadjar's voice.

"You talk to those men as though you have heard your own words from others."

"I have. Captain. Sergeant Nikar said much the same when he was teaching me archery."

"So old Nikar was your instructor? I thought I saw his touch in your draw. What happened to him, by the way?"

"He went home on leave, and never reached it. A band of robbers disappeared that same month. I'd wager Nikar won a fine escort."

"Would you wager on your archery against mine? Five arrows a turn, three turns?"

"Well, Captain—"

"Come, come, oh defender of dancing girls. Did I not hear of your winning free hospitality at the Red Falcon two nights ago? Your purse should be ready to burst with the weight of unspent coin!"

Conan was ready to burst with curiosity, as to how the Captain had learned so much so soon. He only said, "It was no dancing girl I defended, at least at the start. It was a northern woman, and a fine fighter if a trifle overmatched against four."

Khadjar laughed. "Most would be, save yourself. I trust the lady was grateful?"

"Not so a man would notice it," Conan said. He grinned. "The dancing girls were, though. So grateful that I much doubt I am fit to shoot against you."

"Conan, you say a mere three dancing girls have drained your strength? Go back to your hills, then, for Turan is making you old before your time!"

"Take a bow, Captain. Then we shall see who may call whom 'old'."

"As you—Mitra! Who let her in?"

Conan whirled at Khadjar's words. The woman from the Red Falcon was striding toward them from the gate. She walked as she had that night, although the gate guards were openly stripping her with their eyes. If her wound hurt, none could have told it from her gait

She wore the same cut of tunic and trousers, in fine blue linen with vines and trees embroidered in red at the wrists and throat. She also wore a well-sheathed broadsword and a dagger just too short to be called a second sword. A headdress of white silk in the Turanian manner shielded her northern fairness from the sun.

"You look as if you know the wench, Conan," Khadjar said

"No wench she, Captain. That's the woman from the Red Falcon."

"Oho! Well and good. You learn what brought her here. I shall learn why those camels' bastards at the gate let her in!"

Conan unstrung his bow and waited impassively for the woman's arrival. By the time she was within speaking distance, Khadjar was shouting at the guards.

"He will learn that I showed them this," the woman said calmly. Dark against her freckled palm and long fingers lay an ancient gold coin, cast in the reign of King Ibram two centuries ago. Over Ibram's fork-bearded face were stamped three letters in the Zamoran script.

Such stamped coins were the mark of Mishrak, lord of King Yildiz's spies, and those who went about his business. It did not occur to Conan to doubt the sign, curious as it might be for this woman to be carrying it. Those who disobeyed the command of Mishrak were wise to be far from Aghrapur by sunrise of the next day.

"So Mishrak sent you. Why?"

"To bring you, Captain Conan."

"To bring me where?"

"To Mishrak, of course."

"I see your tongue is as well guarded as ever."

"Give me one reason why it should be otherwise."

Perhaps this woman knew little, which would be much like Mishrak. The spy lord never told any of his servants enough to let them piece together any of his secrets. Whether she knew much of little, she would clearly tell Conan nothing.

At this moment Khadjar returned, in an evil temper. A look at the coin did nothing to soothe him. He growled like a winter-waked bear and jerked a hand toward the gate.

"Go, Conan. Neither of us is the kind of fool to quarrel with Mishrak. I'll have Garsim finish the day's drill."

"As you wish, Captain. Now, woman, if you'll let me wash and arm myself—"

"Arm yourself as you wish, Captain Conan. Otherwise, Mishrak says that you will lack nothing if you make haste."

"Nothing?" Conan said with a laugh. His eyes ran lightly over a figure that lacked only garb fit to display it properly. Or perhaps lacking all garb would display it best?

The woman blushed. "Nothing that his hospitality can supply."

"I will not be long." No longer than it would take to don mail under his clothes and secrete a few daggers in unexpected places, at any rate.

"Mishrak lies in the Saddlemakers' Quarter," the woman said, as she led Conan out the gate. The Cimmerian was a head and more taller, but found the pace she set no child's play to match. Hillfolk blood in her, perhaps?

In the Coopers' Square Conan started to turn south. The woman planted herself by the fountain, ignoring a cartload of staves that all but ran her down.

"Captain, the Saddlemakers lie to the north."

"Anyone would think you were no stranger to Aghrapur."

"Anyone who thinks would know that a stranger can learn if she meets those willing to teach."

"Then teach me what you learned," Conan growled. The Saddlemakers' Quarter did in truth lie to the north. He'd hoped to lead the woman some distance by devious routes, where none could easily follow or lay ambushes.

If she would not follow where he led, though, there was nothing to do but follow where she led. Otherwise he'd earn her wrath, lose her guidance, fail Mishrak, and thereby earn a wrath more to be feared than any in Turan save perhaps that of King Yildiz.

Besides, any ambush was most likely to come within the rat's warren of the quarter itself. Conan trusted to his sword and mail to make that ambush a most unhappy affair for any who took part, beginning with the woman herself.

"One moment," the woman said. She lifted her headdress, drank from the fountain, then darted into the nearest alley.

Alleys and byways and reeking dark flights of stairs where Conan had to stoop were their road deeper and deeper into the quarter. Conan followed three paces behind and to the right, hand on the hilt of his sword. Eyes and ears searched for signs of danger, meeting only the din of fifty saddlemakers' shops hard at work. Turning leather and wood and metal into saddles made one din. Masters roaring at their apprentices made a second.

Another turn. Conan had a good view now of the woman's dagger. The pommel was a silver-washed iron apple, and the quillions were double, set at right angles to each other. He resolved to ask the woman to show him the dagger's use, if the laws and customs of steel ever allowed.

They came forty paces from the last turn when the attackers swarmed out of an alley to the left and a window to the right.

Conan counted six opponents as his sword leaped into his hand. One was the guard who'd fled the Red Falcon. Odds enough to make the best careful, unless the woman was better than she'd been that night

Right now she seemed struck witless by fear as the three from the alley closed.

At least she was no foe, if a poor friend. Conan cut down the odds a trifle by hamstringing the last man out of the window. The man dropped farther and harder than he'd planned, going to hands and knees. A Cimmerian boot in the belly lifted him like a dog, hurling him against a comrade. The second man was rising when a Cimmerian broadsword split his skull from crown to the bridge of his nose.

A scream danced off the stones. The guard reeled back, blood streaming from blinded eyes. The same blood dripped from the woman's dagger. Conan grinned as he realized the woman's craft. She'd feigned fear, to draw the three men close. There she had two blades against their three, one more agile than any of theirs.

Two more men darted from the alley. The woman had the wall to guard her left and two opponents at her front. The newcomers ran to take her from the right. Conan faced the last man from the window.

Taking his opponent's measure, Conan feinted high. He took the man's riposte on his mail, then followed the same line again. The second cut tore into the side of the man's neck. His half-severed head lolled on his shoulders. He reeled backwards into his comrades, drenching them in his blood.

They were men of stout nerve, casting the dying man aside without breaking stride. This took just long enough for Conan's sword to fall like an executioner's ax. The righthand man gaped as his swordarm dangled ruined and bloody. Conan freed his sword and gave ground with a backward leap that took him clean over the fallen men behind him.

He landed in a half-crouch. The cut aimed by an upright opponent whistled over his head. His own cut took the man's right leg off just below the knee. The man contrived one more desperate slash, then toppled.

With time at last to think of the woman, Conan saw she needed little thought and hardly more help. She'd thrust one opponent through the throat. He sat against the wall, fingers laced around his neck. As Conan watched, the fingers unlaced and the eyes rolled up in the pale face.

The woman no longer used her dagger as a weapon. Instead she'd made it into invisible, swift-moving armor, catching every cut on the quillions. Her opponent wore mail, so her own slashes had shredded his coat but not his flesh.

"Mine!" she shouted, as fierce as if Conan were another foe.

"Yours," Conan replied. That pride demanded more than a nod. So did those sharp, ready, deadly-swift blades.

The woman stepped back, freeing her dagger and her opponent's sword. Doubtless she expected an attack. Instead he turned and plunged into the alley. In a moment he was only the fading sound of pounding feet.

"Gods, woman! Why did you do that? You think he'd have done as much for you?"

"I suppose not. There's still time to remedy matters, if you choose."

"Chase a man through this maze when he may have been born here? Every time you open your mouth, more of your wits seem to fly out of it!"

"If you're afraid—" She blanched at Conan's face, as she had not at the ambush. "Forgive me. Truly. I merely thought to give him an honorable end, not butcher him like a hog." *

"Shake off your whims about honor, woman, if you want to live long in Turan. Mishrak will tell you that, if you won't listen to me."

"He did. But—Master Barathres taught me well. Gratitude to him, old habit—they will make me think of honor when perhaps I should not." For the first time a smile lit her whole face. "You are not so free of honor yourself. Else why did you take my part at the Red Falcon?"

"I hate to have a quiet night's drinking spoiled. Besides, I took your part only after I saw that Moti was too afraid of that lordling's kin to lift a finger for you. That's the first time I had to brawl at the Red Falcon. If it isn't the last, Moti will pay more than he did that night!"

"What did he pay, if you think it fit to tell me?"

No woman likes to hear of a man's exploits in bedding others. Learning that lesson had nearly cost Conan his manhood. "He paid dearly enough, but I'd rather tell you when we've put a few streets between us and our late friends. The man you let flee may be summoning help."

"I pray not."

"Pray all you wish, but the sooner Mishrak's door closes behind us, the better."

The woman nodded, grimaced at the nicks in her dagger, then sheathed it. Conan knelt, to examine the bodies, frowning as he recognized another. The man whose leg he'd slashed off was a soldier in Captain Itzhak's company. He'd seen the man at the Red Falcon once or twice, gambling and losing. Had he hired out his sword to pay his debts, or did his secret lie deeper than that?

Well, the woman was leading him to the man in all Turan most likely to know, if least likely to tell. She was already turning down the alley, sword in hand. Conan followed, considering that this was twice he'd fought shoulder to shoulder with the woman without knowing her name.

Three

"WHO SEEKS ENTRANCE to this House?" said a soft voice. It seemed to come from the air above the great iron gate in the whitewashed stone wall.

"Captain Conan and she who was sent for him," the woman replied.

They waited, while the owner of that voice studied them. At last Conan heard a series of clangs like a blacksmith at work, then a faint scrape of metal on metal as the gate slid open.

"You may enter this house," came the voice again.

Entry was through a gateway more deserving of the name of tunnel. The walls of Mishrak's house were two men thick and solid stone every finger of the way. Conan counted four arrow slits and two dropholes in the walls and ceiling. At the far end lay another gate, this one of Vendhyan teak, lavishly carved with dragons and tigers in the Khitan style.

Beyond the second gate they entered a guardroom. Two of the guards were black, one of Vanaheim, and the last clearly a native of Shem. None but the Shemite was as small as Conan, and that one wore enough knives to let out the blood of six men before his own flowed.

The four exchanged looks, then elaborate gestures. Conan judged them all to be mutes. At last one of the blacks nodded and pointed to a door in the far wall, plated in mirror-bright silver. It swung open, as if the black had cast a spell on it.

A distaste for sorcery lay deep within all Cimmerians, and Conan was no exception. Moreover, his experience with the breed of magic-wielders had taught him that magic ate at a man's honor and judgment faster than gold. Most of that breed he'd met had ended in seeking to rule all who would obey them and ruin all who would not. Being little inclined to be ruled or ruined at another's whims, Conan could hardly be other than a foe of such wizards.

Reason told him that if Mishrak had magic at his command, he would hardly need the guards. The lord of spies clearly had other resources, beginning with a house built like a fortress.

How like a fortress, Conan began to learn as he and the woman penetrated deeper into it. Their route seemed to have as many turns and windings as the Saddlemakers' Quarter. At every turn was some display of splendor—Aquilonian tapestries, Vendhyan statues of dancing gods, rich ebony carvings of asps. Conan's danger-sharpened senses picked out spy holes in the tapestries, the sharpened daggers held ready in the hands of the gods, the live asps nesting among the carved ones.

From time to time they passed iron-bound doors set in deep recesses. Conan pitied any man foolish enough to think they offered a safer way to the heart of Mishrak's kingdom. They would lead any stranger nowhere except to death—and probably not a quick one.

At last the way grew straight. No longer was the floor alone tiled. Walls and ceiling shone with gilded mosaic work or dripped with tapestries done in cloth of silver and the finest silk. They ended in another guardroom, with an open arch beyond it and the sounds of splashing water and a flute.

"Who conies?" demanded the chief guard.

This room held six instead of four, one another Shemite and the rest with an Iranistani cast to their features. Neither mutes nor giants, the six all wore silvered mail and helmets and the plainest and most-used swords Conan had seen in Turan.

"Captain Conan of the King's mercenaries and a lady sent to bring him to Mishrak," Conan said before the woman could speak. She started.

"I am no mute, like our friends at the first gate," Conan went on. "I am a Cimmerian and a soldier, and both have a certain quaint custom. When we have twice fought side by side with someone and they owe us their lives, we enjoy knowing their names. I know not what barbarous land you call home, but—"

The woman's nostrils flared and she had the grace to flush. "I am Raihna of the Stone Hill in the Marches of Bossonia. I serve the Mistress Illyana."

Which, Conan reflected, answered his question without telling him much.

He set his wits to devising a new question. Before he found words, a voice like a bull's bellow filled the room.

"Come and let us be about our business. We do not have the whole day!"

Conan took Raihna firmly by the arm and led the way into Mishrak's innermost refuge.

From the splendor of the way in, Conan expected more of the same beyond the arch. Instead everything was bare, whitewashed stone walls and ceiling. Only on the floor did rich Iranistani carpets and dyed Hyrkanian fleeces offer softness to both the eye and the foot. On the floor—and around the pool in the middle of the room.

Five women and a man sat on benches around the pool. Four of the women were a pleasure to any man's eye, the more so as they wore only sandals, gilded loinguards, and silver collars set with topazes. It took nothing from Conan's pleasure in the women to detect small daggers hidden in the sandals and loinguards. He wondered what weapon might lurk in the collars. Like much else in Mishrak's house, the women were both a delight to the senses and a menace to unsuspecting enemies.

The fifth woman had the air of a guest rather than a guard. She wore a white robe, held a wine cup, and seemed older than the others.

Before Conan saw more, the bull's bellow came again. "Well, Captain Conan? Will you be once more a thief, and of women this time?"

The bellow came from the man on the bench. Conan doubted that he could rise from it unaided; below the knees his legs were shrunken nightmares, seamed and ravaged with scars. Above the waist, he was as thick as the mast of a galley, with arms like tree-roots. The hair of arms and chest was gray shot with white. So were the few strands of beard and hair that escaped the black leather mask covering Mishrak from crown to chin.

Conan grinned. "Keeping stolen gold is hard enough. Keeping what has legs to run with, if it likes not your company or your manner in bed… Do I look so great a fool?"

"You've been gaping about you like one, I must say."

"Call it gaping if you will, Lord Mishrak. I call it admiring fine work. I know now why you have so many enemies, yet live to serve King Yildiz so well."

"Oh? And what magic do I have to perform this miracle?"

"It's neither magic nor miracle. It's making ready to kill your enemies faster than their courage can endure. Most men can be brave if they have some hope of life or victory. Losing all hope of either would turn most into cowards."

"Save yourself, no doubt, Cimmerian?"

"I have not tested the defenses of your house, Mishrak. Nor do I have any cause to do so. I am not yet your enemy, and I doubt you plan to make me so. Killing me here might do injury to your rugs and ladies."

"So it would. Yet I would suggest that you learn why I have summoned you, before you call me friend."

"It will be a rare pleasure to be told something, for once," Conan said.

"I predict the pleasure will be brief," Mishrak said, in a tone that told of a grim smile under the mask. "Yet your life might be even more so, if you do not accept what I offer you."

"No man lives as long as he wants to," Conan said. "That's the way of the world, just as no man can have every woman he desires," he added, grinning at Raihna. She flushed again. "What is going to shorten my days this time?"

"Lord Houma. Ah, I see I have finally driven a dart deep enough in that thick Cimmerian skull to gain your attention."

Conan wasted no breath denying it. "I understand he's rather fonder of his son than the young witling deserves. You should understand that Raihna and I met his first band of hired swords on our way here. Only one of them left alive, and he only because he fled." Conan would have sworn Raihna threw him a grateful look for not mentioning her mistake.

"As you say, they were the first band sent against you. They will not be the last. Your eye is keen, but can it stay open forever? Who will guard your back when you sleep?"

Almost imperceptibly, Raihna shook her head. Conan shrugged. "I could take leave for a time. Or are you going to tell me that Lord Houma is one of those men with short tempers and long memories? Such have sought my life before, with what success you can see."

"You could not be away from Aghrapur long enough to foil Lord Houma without breaking your oath of service. Are you ready to give up your captaincy?"

"Out of fear of Houma? Lord Mishrak, you can make your offer or not, as you choose. Do not insult me in the bargain."

"I would insult you more by implying that you are too stupid to be afraid. Houma has not the strength he once had, but he is still more than a match for you."

Conan did not doubt the first part of that statement. Houma had owed some of his former strength to his friendship with the Cult of Doom. Conan himself had cast the Cult down to utter and final destruction the best part of two years ago.

As for the rest—

"Granting that Houma might be my match, how would you change that?"

"If you will leave Aghrapur on—a task—for me, I will find ways to change Lord Houma's mind. The task. should not take you more than a month. By then you can return to Aghrapur and sleep in peace."

"And this task?"

"In a moment. While you are traveling, I will also protect those you leave behind, who might also feel Houma's vengeance. I do not imagine that you care much what happens to Sergeant Motilal, but—would you see Pyla's face turned into something like my legs?"

Conan cursed himself for a witling. Houma was clearly the kind of coward who would hurt a foe however he could, whether honorably or not. He should not have forgotten the women.

"I would not like that at all," Conan said, then grinned at the look in Raihna's eyes. So let the swordwench be jealous! He owed Pyla and her friends more than he owed Raihna of Bossonia! "If you can protect them, it would indeed make your offer worth hearing."

"Although," Conan added more calmly than he felt, "I imagine you have plans for Lord Houma whether I'm part of mem or not. You might be keeping him too busy to worry about taverns and their girls anyway. He has more in hand than letting his son misbehave, doesn't he?"

In the silence that followed, Conan clearly heard the snik of a crossbow being cocked. He laughed. "Best tell that archer to cock his bow while people are still talking. When everyone's gaping like dead fish, it's too easy to hear—"

The white-robed woman broke the silence with warm if high-pitched laughter. "Mishrak, I told you several times. I have heard Raihna speak of this man and I have studied his aura. He is not one to be led by the nose, or by any other part of his body. Lead him by his sense of honor, and he will go where you will. Otherwise do not waste your breath."

A choking noise crept from under the leather hood. Conan suspected that if Mishrak could have strangled anyone, he would have started with Conan and gone on to the woman. Beside Conan, Raihna was pressing her face into a pillar to hide her blush and what looked remarkably like laughter.

"May I deserve your praise, lady," Conan said. "Would I be speaking to Mistress Illyana?"

"You would."

The woman also seemed to have northern blood in her, but her hair was brown with tints of auburn. She wore a simple flowing gown of white silk with saffron borders and silver-decorated sandals. The gown was too loose to show much of her body, but from the lines in the long face Conan judged her to be upwards of thirty. A trifle thin-flanked for his tastes, but not unhandsome.

Illyana accepted Conan's scrutiny in silence for a moment, then smiled. "With Lord Mishrak's permission, I will tell you what is asked of you. But first I will thank you for saving Raihna from death or shame. She began as a hired sword, but the years have made us spirit-sisters."

Conan frowned. "Auras" and "spirit-kin" were things of priestcraft if not wizardry. What was this woman?

"I ask your aid in a search for the missing Jewel of Kurag. It is a thing of ancient Atlantean magic, set in an arm-ring of Vanir work—"

She went on to describe the history of the Jewels, as much as was known of it, from their mysterious origins in Atlantis to the present day. It seemed they had a long and bloody history, for the spells needed to use them safely were hard to learn even for the most accomplished sorcerers.

"Then why bother with the Jewels at all?" Conan asked.

"Even separately, they confer great power on a skilled user. Together, no one knows what limits there might be on the magic of their possessor."

Conan reflected that he had learned nothing about sorcerers he had not long since known.

Illyana continued with the possession of the Jewels by her master Eremius, his growing ambition to use the powers of the Jewels to rule the world, their quarrel, her flight with one of the Jewels, and much else. She ended by saying that the tales of demons coming out of the Ibars Mountains hinted of Eremius's presence.

"With all in fear of him, his strength will grow steadily. Soon it will make him a valuable ally to ambitious men like Lord Houma. They will aid him, thinking to use his powers against their enemies. They will only be buying themselves the strongest chains of all, forged by the most ancient and evil magic."

"Ancient and evil magic…" Conan heard those words with icy clarity, although he had heard most of what went before with only half an ear.

Mishrak was not only asking him to flee like a thief from Aghrapur and Lord Houma's vengeance. He was asking a Cimmerian to guard the back of a sorceress on a quest for a menace no honest steel could face. He would also have wagered his sword that Illyana was telling less than the whole truth about the Jewels.

No honor in any of this. But even less in leaving Pyla and Zaria and young Thebia (who might grow no older) to the mercy of those who had none, either.

Curse all women and whatever god created them as a joke on men! They might be a mystery themselves, but they certainly knew how to bring a man to them, like a trainer with a half-grown hunting dog!

"By Hanuman's stones!" Conan growled. "I never thought listening could be as dry work as talking. Bring me and Raihna some wine, and I'll promise to fly to the moon and bring back its queen's loinguard!"

Two of the guardswomen sprang up without an order and vanished like hares fleeing the wolf. Conan sat down cross-legged and drew his sword. Sighting along the blade for nicks, he concluded he'd best put it in the hands of a smith before setting out on serious business.

When he knew he had everyone's attention, he laughed. "You want me to run off to the Ibars Mountains, with a half-mad swordwench and a more than half-mad sorceress. Then we hunt for a magic jewel and steal it from a completely mad wizard, fighting our way through whatever magic-spawned monsters we find. If we snatch the jewel, you'll win, whether we live or die."

Mishrak laughed for the first time since Conan mentioned Houma. "Conan, you should be one of my spies. I have none who could say half as much in twice as many words."

"I'd rather be gelded!"

"Why not do both? A fighting eunuch would be a valuable ear and eye in Vendhya. I'm sure you would rise high in my service."

Raihna gave up trying to stifle her laughter and buried her face in Conan's shoulder. He put an arm around her and she did not resist, only shaking the harder until tears streamed down her face.

By the time she was sober, the guardswomen had returned with the wine. Mishrak poured out the first cup, drank from it, and then watched in silence until the others were served.

"Well, Conan?" he said at last.

"Well, Mishrak. It's not to my taste, running like a thief because I didn't want my drinking spoiled by seeing a woman mishandled. It's less to my taste going anywhere in the company of a wizard.

"But you don't have the name of a fool, Mishrak. If you want me for this nonsense, I suppose you can have me."

Raihna threw her arms around Conan. From the look on Illyana's face, she would have liked to do the same. From under the black leather hood came only a harsh laugh.

Four

"Now HERE'S A finer mount than I'll wager you thought I had," the horse dealer said exuberantly. "Look at those legs. Look at that depth of chest. Look at that noble—"

"How is his wind?" Raihna said.

"He's no colt, I'll not deny that. He's better. A seasoned, trained mount fit to carry either of you wherever you might want to go. Begging your pardon, Captain, my lady, but neither of you has the look of dwarfs to these old eyes. To be sure, I'm a better judge of horses than of men, but—"

Raihna ignored the dealer and stepped up to the horse. He gave her what seemed to Conan a wary look, but showed no obvious skittishness or signs of mistreatment. He stood patiently for Raihna's examination, then tossed his head and whinnied when she patted his neck.

"No colt indeed," Raihna said. "Were he a man, I'd say he was most fit to sit in the sun until his days were finished."

"My lady!" The dealer could hardly have seemed more outraged if Raihna had questioned his lawful birth. "This fine, long-striding beast has many more years—"

"A few more years, perhaps. Not enough to be worth half what you ask for him."

"Lady, you insult both my honor and this horse. What horse so insulted will bear you willingly? If I reduce the price by a single brass piece, I will be insulting him. Mitra strike me dead if I wouldn't!"

"I'm surprised that someone you sold a vulture's dinner disguised as a horse hasn't saved Mitra the trouble!" Conan said. He was far from sure why Raihna was spending so much time bargaining for a huge gelding clearly at home only on level ground. He did know that if the dealer thought he could appeal to Conan, he would do so and all would waste more time.

The bargaining waxed hot and eager. Conan was reminded of a game he had seen among the Iranistani, where men on ponies batted a dead calf about with long-handled mallets. (He had heard tales that sometimes a dead enemy's head took the place of the calf.)

At last the dealer cast up his hands and looked much as if he would gladly go and hang himself. "When you see me begging for alms in the Great Square, remember that it was you who made me a beggar. You will offer no more?"

Raihna licked dusty lips. "By the Four Springs! I will have precious little to put in your begging bowl if I pay more! Would you have me selling myself in the streets because you know not the true value of a horse?"

The dealer grinned. "You are too fine a lady for the likes of those you would meet in the streets. The watch would also demand their share. Now, if you wished some time to come privily to me, I am sure—"

"Your wife would notice what was missing, the next time she bedded you," Conan growled. "Shape more respectful words on your tongue, or carry it home in your purse!"

"There will be little else in that purse," the dealer grunted. "Oh, well and good. For what you're offering, I can hardly throw in much beyond the bridle and bit."

That was no loss. Mishrak had ordered Conan and Raihna to scatter his gold widely about Aghrapur. They would purchase their remaining horses from other dealers, their saddles and tack from still others, and so on.

Conan was prepared to obey. Reluctantly, because he knew little of Mishrak's reasons and those he suspected he much disliked. But he would obey. To make an enemy of both Mishrak and Houma would mean leaving Aghrapur with more haste than dignity.

Conan was footloose enough not to mourn if that was his fate. He was proud enough to want a worthier foe than Houma to drive him forth.

The dealer was still calling on the gods to witness his imminent ruin when Conan and Raihna led the horse out the gate. In the street beyond, she stopped, gripped the bridle with one hand and the mane with the other, and swung herself on to the horse's back.

"So you can mount unaided and ride bareback," the Cimmerian growled. Raihna had managed no small feat, but he'd be cursed if she'd know it from him! "Small help that will be, when we take this great lump into the mountains. He'll starve in a week, if he doesn't break a leg or maybe his rider's neck sooner."

"I know that, Conan."

"Then why take him at all?"

"There's a good long ride across open country before we reach the mountains. If we took mountain horses all the way, it would take longer. Time is something we may not have.

"Also, mountain horses would tell those watching us too much about where we are going. We would be followed and perhaps run down, because those who followed would surely ride heavy mounts! Do you deny that we are being watched?"

"I think that fruitseller over there—and don't look, for Erlik's sake!—is the same man as the painter who followed us yesterday."

"You told me of neither."

"Crom! I didn't think you needed telling!"

Raihna flushed. "You were hiding nothing from me?"

"I'm not that big a fool. You may not know Agh-rapur, but you'll be fighting beside me until this witling's errand is done!"

"I am grateful, Conan."

"How grateful, may I ask?" he grinned.

The flush deepened, but she smiled. "You may ask. I do not swear to answer." She sobered. "The next time, remember that what I know of Aghrapur, I know from Mishrak. Anything you can teach me about this city will be something I need not learn from the lord of spies!"

"Now I'll listen to that. I'd teach a serpent or a spider to spare him needing to learn from Mishrak!"

Raihna reached down and gripped Conan's massive shoulder. Her grip was as strong as many a man's, but no man could have doubted that those fingers were a woman's.

They passed on down the street in silence for another hundred paces. At last Conan lifted his water bottle, drank, then spat the dust from his mouth into the street.

"I'd lay a year's pay on Mishrak having it in mind to use us as bait," he said. "What think you?"

"Much the same," Raihna replied. "I would be less easy if Illyana were not so determined to come to grips with Eremius. It is not just ending the danger of the Jewels of Kurag that she seeks. It is vengeance for what she suffered at his hands." Her tone made it plain she would not speak of those sufferings.

"If your mistress is going to join us on Mishrak's hook, she'd best be able to ride anything we put under her. This is no stroll in a country garden!"

"My mistress is a better rider than I am. Remember that Bossonia is in great part hill country." That explained her stride, so familiar and so pleasing to Conan's eye.

Raihna's voice hardened. "Also, her father was a great landowner. He kept more horses than I saw before I left home." Her voice hinted of a tale Conan would have gladly heard, if he'd dreamed she would tell him a word of it.

Conan sought a subject more pleasing to both of them. "Will bringing the Jewels together end the danger? Perhaps they'll be safer apart."

"There is no corruption in Illyana!" Raihna snapped.

"I didn't say it was her I doubted," Conan replied. At least he doubted her no more than any other wizard, and perhaps less than some. "I was thinking of other wizards, or even common thieves. Oh well, once we have the Jewels they'll be a boil on Mishrak's arse and not ours!"

"Hssst! Ranis!" Yakoub whispered.

"Tamur!" The guard called him by the name under which Yakoub had dealt with him.

"Softly, please. Are you alone?"

Ranis shrugged. "One man only. I could hardly travel alone to this quarter without arousing suspicion."

"True enough." Yakoub covertly studied Ranis's companion. Given no time to flee or call for help, he would be even less trouble than his master.

"So, Ranis. What brings you here? I already know that you failed."

Ranis could not altogether hide his surprise. He had the sense not to ask how Yakoub knew this. Indeed, he suspected Yakoub would not have needed Houma's aid to hear of a fight that left seven men dead or maimed in an alley of the Saddlemakers' Quarter.

"I want to try again. My honor demands that I try again."

Yakoub swallowed blistering words about the honor of those who flee and leave comrades dead behind them. Instead he smiled his most charming smile. "That speaks well of you. What think you will be needed, to once more face the Cimmerian? Remember, the tale in the streets runs that any man who faces him is cursed for self-destruction!"

"I can believe that. I've seen him fight twice. But by all the gods, no barbarian is invincible! Even if he were, he's insulted my lord and me twice over!"

So Ranis had enough honor to recognize an insult when it was given? A pity he had not enough to recognize the need of dying with his men, thereby saving Yakoub a trifle of work. Not that the work would be dangerous, save for the odd chance, but there was always that.

Part of Yakoub's disguise as a crippled veteran was a staff nearly his own height. A single thrust crushed the throat of Ranis's companion before he knew that he faced an armed foe.

The staff whirled, then swept in a low arc as Yakoub sought to take Ranis's legs out from under him. Ranis leaped high and came down on Yakoub's unguarded left side. Or at least, the side he thought unguarded. The staff seemed to leap into his path and that of his sword. The blade sank into wood, met steel, and rebounded. Before Ranis could recover, one end of the staff smashed against his temple. He staggered, sword hand loosening its grip but desperation raising his arm once more to guard.

He was too slow to stop the lead-shod end of the staff from driving into his skull squarely between his eyes. Ranis flew backward as if kicked by a mule, striking the wall and sliding down to slump lifeless in the filth of the tavern's rear yard.

Yakoub saw that Ranis's companion had died of his crushed throat and would need no mercy steel. Kneeling beside each body in succession, he closed their eyes and placed their weapons in their hands. Such was honorable treatment. Also, to any who did not look too closely at the wounds, it would seem that they had slain each other in some petty quarrel.

Doubtless Mishrak would be suspicious, when word reached him. By that time, however, the bodies would be too far gone to tell anyone without magic at his command very much. Not less important to Yakoub, he himself would be some distance on the road back to the mountains and his work there. His saving Bora's father Rhafi should assure him, if not a hero's wel-come, at least freedom from awkward questions.

"You know what to do," Conan said to the four tribesmen. "Have you any questions, besides when you will be paid?"

The men grinned. The eldest shrugged. "This is no matter for pay, as you well know. But—we cannot kill those who would steal what is yours?"

"He whom I now serve wishes live prisoners, who may tell him what he needs to know."

"Ah," the man said. He sounded much relieved. "Then you have not grown weak, Conan. Those who live may yet be killed afterward. Do you think your master will let us do the work for him?"

"I will tell him all that the gods will permit me to say," Conan replied. "Now, is anything else lacking?"

"This food of the city folk is hardly food for men," the youngest man said. "But I do not suppose it will turn us into weaklings or women in a few days."

"It will not. And if you are needed for longer than that, I shall see that you have proper food. By what is known but may not be talked of, I swear it!"

The tribesmen made their gesture of respect as Conan turned and led a mystified Raihna out of the stable. In the courtyard between the stable and the inn, she turned to him with a bemused expression.

"Those were Hyrkanians, were they not?"

"Your eye improves each day, Raihna."

"They look as likely to steal our goods as to guard them."

"Not those, nor any of their tribe. We owe each other blood debts."

"The Hyrkanians honor those, or so I have heard."

"You have heard the truth."

Much to Conan's relief, Raihna did not seem disposed to pursue the matter further. His battle against the Cult of Doom in company with the tribesmen was not for the ears of anyone who might tell Mishrak.

Raihna strode across the courtyard and into the inn with her back even straighter than usual. As they climbed the stairs, Conan heard the jingle of her purse.

"How much have you left?" She told him. "I'd be happier with more, if we're going to buy horses for the mountains."

"Mishrak expects us to find them at the army outposts."

"Meaning he has his own men in the outposts? Likely enough. I'd still much rather have a second choice, one that won't take us close to the outposts. If Mishrak can put his men into them, why can't Houma do the same?"

"You see clearly, Conan."

"I'm still alive, Raihna. I've always thought being alive has it over being dead. If Mishrak will spend a little more of his gold, we may not have to spend our blood. Tell that to your mistress, since she seems to have his ear!"

They were at the door of her room. Mishrak's gold had bought them not only horses and gear, but separate rooms at one of Aghrapur's best inns. Of a certainty their enemies would hear of their presence, but could hope to do nothing. Between the watch and the inn's own guards, nothing could be attempted without a pitched battle.

Why attack a bear in his den, when you knew he would soon have to leave it?

"Sleep well, Raihna." She turned to unlock her door. As always, Conan's blood stirred at the swell of breasts and hips, the long graceful lines of back and leg. Well, the inn did not ask a man to sleep alone—

Raihna gripped his hand and led him through the door. She kicked the door shut, and before he could speak had lifted her tunic over her head. The upper slopes of her breasts were lightly freckled; their firm fullness seemed to cry out for a man's hand.

Conan's blood no longer stirred. It seethed, on the verge of boiling over.

"You wished me a sound sleep, Conan. Well, come here and let us both find it. Or must I disrobe you as well as myself? I warn you, if I must do that I may be too weary for bedsport—"

"Hah!" Conan said. His arms went around her, lifting her off her feet. Desire thundered in him, and he felt the same in her. "If it's weary you want to be, Raihna, then I can give you the soundest sleep of your life!"

Five

"ENTER IN MITRA'S name," Ivram said. Hinges long unoiled screamed as the priest opened the door for Bora. Bora followed Ivram inside. In the center of the chamber a hearth of bricks was at work on Ivram's dinner. Pungent smoke tickled Bora's nostrils, as did the more appetizing odors of baking bread and bubbling stew. They reminded Bora that he had eaten not a bite since morning.

Around the hearth lay dyed fleeces and rugs of simple design but exquisite workmanship. More rugs hung on the wall above a richly-carved chest. The figure of Mitra on the lid had eyes of amber and coral.

From beyond the door to an inner chamber floated the soft murmur of a flute. The priest's "niece" Maryam was playing for the night's devotions and for whatever else might be expected of her during this night. Few in Crimson Springs could name her "niece" without smiling, at least when Ivram was elsewhere. Most suspected that she had learned the art of the flute in the taverns of Aghrapur.

"Sit, son of Rhafi," Ivram said. He clapped his hands and the flute was silent. "Maryam, we have a guest."

The woman who emerged from the inner room was barely half the priest's size or age. She bore a brass tray covered with a piece of embroidered linen. On the linen rested honeycakes and bits of smoked lamb. She knelt gracefully before Bora, contriving to let her robe fall away from her neck and throat. The neck was slender and the dark-rose throat firm and unlined. Bora knew other sensations than hunger.

"Wine?" Maryam asked. Her voice was rich and soothing. Bora wondered if this was another art of pleasing she had learned in taverns. If so, she had learned it well.

"Forgive me if I seem ungrateful for your hospitality," Bora said uneasily. "I need wise counsel more than anything else."

"My ears are open and my heart at your service," Ivram said. In another priest's mouth the ritual words might have rung hollow. In Ivram's, they could hardly be doubted. The villages around his shrine forgave him gluttony and a "niece" and would have forgiven him far more, because he listened. Sometimes he also gave wise counsel, but as often, the mere knowledge that he listened eased those who came to him.

"I know the secret of the mountain demons," Bora said. "Yet none will believe me. Some call me mad, some a liar. A few have sworn to have my blood if I do not cease to put them in fear.

"They say it is their women and children they do not wish frightened, but I have seen their faces. They think that if they do not know what the danger is, it will not come near them!"

"They are fools," Ivram said. He laughed, so that his jowls danced. "They also do not care to have a boy be more of a man than they are."

"Do you believe me, ihen?"

"Something stalks these mountains, something reeking of uncleanness and evil magic. Any knowledge of that is more than we have had before." He took a honeycake between thumb and forefinger. It vanished in two bites.

Bora looked at the plate, to discover it half-empty already. "Maryam, I will be grateful for that wine."

"It is our pleasure," she replied. Her smile made Bora's head spin as though he had already emptied a cup.

Now that he had found someone of the hills ready to believe him, Bora could hardly credit his good fortune. Nor could he muster the courage to speak, without strengthening himself with drink.

Ivram scanted neither his guests nor himself in the matter of wine. By the time the second cup was half-empty, Bora had done more than tell his story. He had begun to wonder why he had ever been reluctant to tell it. Maryam was looking at him with wide, worshipful eyes. He had never dreamed of having such a woman look at him so.

"If you saw half what you describe, we are in more peril than I had dared imagine," Ivram said at last. "I almost understand those who did not care to hear you. Have you told anyone outside the village? This is not our secret, I think."

"I—well, there is one. Not quite outside the village, although he has gone to Aghrapur—" The wine now tangled Bora's tongue rather than freeing it. Also, he did not much care to talk of his sister Caraya's unmaidenly passion for Yakoub.

"It is Yakoub the herdsman, is it not?" Ivram said gently. Bora nodded without raising his eyes, from the floor.

"You do not trust him?" Bora shook his head. "Who else do you know who would both listen to you and bear your tale to Aghrapur? Mughra Khan's soldiers have arrested your father. They will be slow to listen to you.

"The friends of Yakoub may not be in high places. Yet they will not be the men of Mughra Khan. Yakoub is your best hope."

"He may be our only one!" Bora almost shouted. The wine on a nearly empty stomach was making him light-headed. "Besides the gods, of course," he added hastily, as he remembered that he was guest to a priest of Mitra.

"The gods will not thank us for sitting like stones upon the hillside and waiting for them to rescue us," Ivram said. "Yakoub seems a better man than those who seek only rebels when they should seek wizardry. Perhaps he will not be good enough, but—"

"Ivram! Quickly! To the south! The demon fire burns!"

Maryam's voice was half a scream and wholly filled with terror. She stood in the outer doorway, staring into the night. Bora took his place beside her, seeing that her dark-rose face was now pale as goat's milk.

Emerald fire climbed the slopes of the Lord of the Winds. The whole mighty peak might have been sinking in a lake of that fire. At any moment Bora expected to see the snowcap melt and waft away into the night as green-hued steam.

Ivram embraced Maryam and murmured to her. At last she rested her head on his shoulder in silence. He looked beyond her, to the demon light. To Bora he seemed to be looking even farther, into another world.

When he spoke, his voice had the ring of prophecy. In spite of his wine-given courage, Bora shuddered at the priest's words.

"That is the light of our doom. Bora, I will join my words to yours. We must prepare ourselves, for what is about to come upon us."

"I cannot lead the villages!"

"Cannot, or will not?"

"I would if they listened to me. But I am a boy!"

"You are more of a man than those who will not hear you: Remember that, speak as you have spoken to me tonight, and the wise will listen."

A witling's thought passed through Bora's mind. Did Ivram mean that he should stay drunk until the demons had passed? The idea tempted him, but he doubted that there was so much wine in all the villages!

Eremius flung his arms toward the night sky, as if seeking to conjure the stars down from the heavens. No stars were to be seen from the valley, not through the emerald mist around the Lord of the Winds.

Again and again his arms leaped high. Again and again he felt the power of the Jewel pour from them like flames. Ah, if he could unleash such power with one Jewel, what might he do with both?

Tonight he would take a step toward possessing both. A long step, for tonight the Transformed would pour out of the mountains to strike far and wide.

Thunder rolled down the sky and echoed from the valley walls. The ground shuddered beneath Eremius's feet.

He took a deep breath and with the utmost reluctance reined in the power he had conjured. With his senses enhanced by the Jewel, he had seen the flaws and faults in the walls of the valley. One day he would cast it all down in rubble and ruin to show the world his power, but not tonight.

"Master! Master! Hear me!" It was the captain of the sentries.

"Silence!" A peremptory gesture held menace.

"Master! You put the men in fear! If they are to follow the Transformed—"

"Fear? Fear? I will show you fear!" Another gesture. Eremius's staff leaped into his hand. He raised it, to smite the captain to the ground in a pile of ashes.

Again he took a deep breath. Again he reined in the power he would have gloried in unleashing. Near witless as they were, his human fighters had their part in everything he did until he regained the second Jewel.

The Transformed could be unleashed only when Eremius was. awake to command them. When he slept, so did they. Then the spellbound humans must do the work of guarding and foraging, however badly.

With both Jewels, one like Eremius could command the loyalty of the finest soldiers while leaving their wits intact. With only one, he could command only those he had made near-kin to simpletons.

The thousandth curse on Illyana shrieked through his mind. His staff danced in the air, painting a picture between him and the captain. Illyana appeared, naked, with nothing of the sorceress about her. Rather, it was her younger self, ready to receive a man as the real Illyana never had (though not for want of effort by Eremius).

The staff twitched. Illyana's image opened its mouth and closed its eyes. Its hands curved into claws, and those claws began to twist in search of the man who had to be near.

At Eremius's command, the image did all that he had ever seen or imagined a woman doing in the grip of lust. Then the image surpassed lust, entering realms of blood and obscenity beyond the powers of most men even to imagine.

They were also beyond the powers of the captain to endure. He began by licking his lips at the display of lust. Then sweat glazed his face, except for dry lips. Under the sweat the face turned pale.

At last his eyes rolled up in his head and he crashed to the ground. He lay as senseless as if Eremius truly had smitten him with the staff. Eremius waved the staff, now to conjure sense back into the captain instead of out of him. The man lurched to his knees, vomited, looked wildly about him for the image, then knelt and kissed the ground at Eremius's feet.

For the moment, it seemed to Eremius that the man had learned enough of fear.

"Go and send your men up to the valley mouth," Eremius said. "They are to hold it until the last of the Transformed are past. Then they are to fall in with the pack animals."

The human fighters were not as the Transformed, able to endure for days between their meals of flesh. They would need rations until the raiders reached inhabited farms. Pack horses would serve, their scents altered by magic so that they would not rouse the hunger of the Transformed.

"I go in obedience to the Master of the Jewel," the captain said. In spite of his fear, he vanished swiftly into the darkness. Or perhaps his fear gave wings to his feet. Eremius hardly cared, as long as he was obeyed.

Oh, for the day when he would hear "I go in obedience to the Master of the Jewels" from a soldier worthy of the name! A soldier such as High Captain Khadjar or even his obedient son Yakoub.

The thought that this day drew closer hardly consoled Eremius. To punish only an image of Illyana instead of the real woman reminded him of how far he had to go.

So be it. Only a fool feared to unroll the parchment, lest he miscast the spell!

Eremius cast his thoughts up and down the valley, in a silence more complete than the tomb's.

Come forth. Come forth at your Master's command. Come forth and seek prey.

The Transformed came forth. A carrion reek rode the wind ahead of them, thickening until the stench seemed a living, palpable entity. Eremius conjured a bubble of clean air around himself. As an afterthought he added the scent of Illyana's favorite bath oil to the air.

The Transformed filed past. They shambled, lurched, and seemed perpetually about to stumble. This was as Eremius wished it, when they were close to him. Unleashed and ranging free, the Transformed could overtake a galloping horse.

Emerald light glowed on scales and red eyes. Here and there it shone on the spikes of a club slung from a crude rope belt or on a brass-bound cestus encasing a clawed hand. Even after the Transformation, the Transformed were not wholly alike. Some had the wits to chose and wield weapons. Others lacked the wits, or perhaps were too proud of their vast new strength.

At last the Transformed were gone into the night. Eremius chanted the words that would bind the spell of control into the staff. For some days to come, he would need no other magic, unless matters went awry. Even if they did, a single Jewel of Kurag was no mean weapon in the hands of a sorcerer such as Eremius. Those who doubted this might find themselves learning otherwise before long, although they would hardly live to profit by this lesson.

Six

To THE EAST, the foothills of the Ibars Mountains crept upward toward the blue sky. Somewhere among them the Shimak River had its birth. In those hills it swelled from a freshet to a stream. Flowing onward, it turned from a stream to a river before it reached the plains of Turan. Here it was halfway to its junction with the Ilbars River. Already its width and depth demanded a ferry rather than a ford.

The ferry herald blew the signal on a brass-bound ivory horn the length of Conan's arm. Three times the harsh blast rolled across the turbid waters. Three times the pack animals rolled their eyes and pecked uneasily.

Raihna dismounted to gentle them, leaving Conan to tend to her mount. Illyana remained mounted, eyes cast on something only she could see. Without looking closely, a man might have thought her half-witted. After looking closely, no man would care to do so again.

She rode as well as Raihna had promised and made little extra work, for all that she did less than her share of what there was. No one called sorcerer was easy company for Conan, but Illyana was more endurable than most.

It did not hurt that she was comelier than most sorcerers Conan had met! She dressed as though unaware of it, but a handsome woman lay under those baggy traveling gowns and embroidered trousers.

A handsome woman, whose magic required that she remain a maiden even though of an age to have marriageable daughters. It was wisdom for her to be companioned by another woman—who was no maiden.

Indeed, Raihna was enough woman for any man. After a single night with Raihna, Conan could hardly think of Illyana as a woman without some effort. Doubtless this was Raihna's intent, but Conan hardly cared.

Three hundred paces away, the ferry left the far bank and began its return across the Shimak. To describe the craft as bargelike would have insulted any barge Conan had ever seen in Aghrapur's teeming port. Amidships a platform allowed human passengers to stand clear of their beasts and baggage. On either side slaves manned long sweeps, two on each.

Behind Conan other travelers assembled—a peasant family loaded with baskets, a solitary peddler with his mule and slave" boy, a half-dozen soldiers under a scar-faced sergeant. The peasants hardly looked able to buy a loaf of bread, let alone ferry passage, but perhaps they would trade some of their baskets.

The ferry crept across the river until what passed for its bow scrunched into the gravel by the pier. Conan sprang on to the pier, which creaked under his weight.

"Come along, ladies. We were first at the landing, but that won't count for much if we're slow off the mark!"

Raihna needed little urging. She helped her mistress dismount, then led the three riding mounts on to the ferry. It had two gangplanks, and the one for beasts was stout enough to support elephants, let alone horses.

Conan stood on the pier until Raihna had loaded and tethered all five animals. No one sought to push past him, nor did he need to draw his sword to accomplish this. The thickness of the arms crossed on the broad chest and the unblinking stare of the ice-blue eyes under the black brows were enough to daunt even the soldiers.

Illyana sat down on the platform under the canopy. Conan and Raihna stood in the open. The soldiers and the peddler watched Raihna appreciatively.

Conan hoped they would confine themselves to watching. He and the women were traveling in the guise of a merchant's widow, her younger sister, and the merchant's former captain of caravan guards. That deception would hardly survive Raihna's shedding the blood of even the most importunate fellow-traveler.

The peasants and the peddler joined Conan's party aboard the ferry. Two deckhands heaved the animals' gangplank aboard. Then the soldiers tramped onto the pier, leading their mounts. The ferrymaster gasped in horror and turned paler than the muddy river.

"By the gods, no! Not all of you! The ferry cannot bear the weight. The gangplank still less. Sergeant, I beg you!"

"I give no ear to beggars," the sergeant growled. "Forward, men!"

Conan sprang off the platform. The planks of the deck groaned as if a catapult stone had struck. He strode to the edge of the deck and put his foot on one end of the passenger gangplank. The sergeant put his foot on the other end. He was only a trifle shorter than Conan, and quite as broad.

"Sergeant, the ferrymaster knows what he can carry and what he can't."

"Well and good. You can get off. Just you and the livestock, though. Not the ladies. My men and I will take care of them. Won't we, lads?"

A robust, lewd chorus of agreement drowned out sulphurous Cimmerian curses. Conan spread his arms wide.

"Sergeant, how well can you swim?"

"Eh?"

"Perhaps you should take a swimming lesson or two, before you try overloading a ferry."

Conan leaped, soaring half his own height into the air. He came down on the gangplank. He was out of swordreach of the sergeant, but that mattered not at all.

The gangplank writhed like a serpent. The sergeant staggered, fighting for balance, then lost the fight. With a mighty splash he plunged headfirst into the river. It was shallow enough that he landed with his legs waving frantically in the air.

Conan pushed the passenger gangplank clear of the ferry, to discourage the soldiers from taking a hand. Then he bent, grasped the sergeant by both ankles, and swung him back and forth until he coughed up all the water he had swallowed.

When the coughs gave way to curses, Conan set the sergeant down. "You need more lessons, sergeant. No doubt of that. My lady's younger sister will be glad to teach you, if you've a mind to be polite to her. Swimming only, mind you, and nothing else—"

More curses, this time on "the lady's younger sister" as well as Conan. The Cimmerian frowned.

"Sergeant, if I can't mend your manners with water, I'll try steel the next time. Meanwhile, do you want to cross with us or do your men need you to change their smallclothes—?"

The sergeant threw out a final curse, then lurched off the deck into the water. This time he managed to land on his feet. Finally too breathless to curse, he splashed to the pier. His soldiers helped him up, glaring at Conan all the while.

"Ferrymaster, I think we'd best push off," Conan said.

The ferrymaster, even paler than before, nodded vigorously. He waved to the drummer amidships, who raised his mallet and began pounding out a beat for the slaves. Gravel scraped and growled under the ferry, then she was once more afloat and underway.

Compared to the ferry, a snail had wings. In the time needed to reach the middle of the river, Conan could have eaten dinner and washed it down with ale worth savoring.

The ferrymaster stood on the platform, eyes roaming between the slaves and the receding bank with its cursing soldiers. Instead of fading, his pallor seemed to be growing on him. Had he taken a fever?

"Hi, ha, ho, hey!"

Frantic shouts erupted from aft Conan whirled, to see half of one of the steering oars vanish over the side. A deckhand made to strip and swim after it, but it vanished before he could leap.

"Vendhyan teak," the ferrymaster said, as if the words were a curse. "Heavy as iron and sinks like it too. An ill-favored day, this one. We must turn about in midstream and make our bow our stern. I hope you are in no great haste, you and your ladies."

Nothing in those words made other than good sense. They still rang strangely on the Cimmerian's ears. Since he could put no name to that strangeness, he watched the ferrymaster hurry aft, calling to the hands.

"How long do we spend out here because some sailor was fumble-fingered?" Illyana snapped.

"As long as it takes to turn this drunken sow of a ferry," Conan said. "How long that will be, the gods know. Maybe the ferrymaster, too. Best not look at me. I'm no sailor."

"Perhaps. But can you at least ask the master?"

"As you wish, my lady."

Conan turned to head aft, where the master and two hands were now wrestling with the ferry's light skiff. Raihna put a hand on his arm in what to all eyes would seem a gesture of affection. Her whisper was fierce but unheard by anyone else, including her mistress.

"Be careful, Conan. I would go with you, but Illyana's back needs guarding more than yours."

"That's the truth. But who from?"

"I don't know. But what the master said—I've seldom heard a speech that smelled more of long practice. He spoke like an old beggar who's been asking for alms on the same temple steps for twenty years."

"Maybe this happens every third crossing," Conan grunted. "With this floating lumberpile, anything's possible."

"I need no reassurance!" Raihna's whisper was fiercer yet. "I need to know that you're not a fool."

"Woman, you can warn me without insult. If the master's plotting anything, he's outnumbered."

"How so?"

"You're worth two of him, and as for me—" He shrugged. "You be the judge."

"You great Cimmerian oaf—" Raihna began. Then she laughed softly. "The gods be with you."

"With all of us, if the master has any friends aboard," Conan said. He was ruefully aware of the help the soldiers might have given. Well, only the gods had foreknowledge, and they only if the priests told the truth, which likely as not meant mat no one knew what lay before him!

Loosening his sword in its scabbard, Conan strode aft to join the master.

By the time Conan reached the stern, the two hands were lowering the skiff into the water. The master, paler than ever, stood watching them. Watching the master, Conan saw that his hand did not stray far from his dagger. Nor did his eyes stray far from the peasant family. In their turn the peasants had their eyes on the master, with the attention of a cat watching a bird's nest. Gone were the dull-witted stares with which they had come aboard.

Conan felt more than sweat creeping down his spine. Raihna had most likely seen clearly. Something was afoot.

The skiff splashed into the river. One of the hands set the oars into their locks, while the other held the line. The master turned to Conan.

"With two stout fellows at the oars, the skiff will turn us about in good time. Then we can steer again, and seek a landing."

In the shallows by either bank the Shimak had hardly more current than a millpond. Here in midstream matters were otherwise. The ferry was already well downstream from the pier on the far side.

Not far downstream, Conan saw that the banks rose steep and high on either side. A man landing there would have a fine scramble before he reached open ground. In that time he would be an easy target for archers on the river. Farther downstream still, if Conan remembered rightly, lay rapids, their fangs mostly drawn at this season of low water but not harmless to this ferry…

The second hand climbed into the skiff and took his oar. The master reached into the shadows beneath the platform. He came out with a stout purse in one hand. A hooded peasant woman stepped forward, hands raised as if to beg for alms.

Conan drew his sword and raised it hilt-first. He and Raihna had agreed on that signal to be ready for a fight but let others begin it. The master scurried for the edge of the deck, thrusting his purse into the bosom of his shirt as he ran. At the edge of the deck he drew his dagger and leaped.

As he leaped, so did the peasant woman. The hood flew back, revealing a gap-toothed, hook-nosed brown face whose curling black beard no woman had ever grown. A long knife leaped from under the robes to slash at Conan.

It reached only where Conan would have been. A backward leap took him clear of danger. He tossed his sword. It came down with hilt cleaving to his hand as if it had grown there.

From over the side came the crunch of wood and shrill curses. Eager to escape, the master had leaped too swiftly and come down too heavily. One foot had gone straight through the bottom of the skiff.

"I hope you swim better than the sergeant," Conan shouted. Then it was time to think of his own opponents, three "peasants" advancing with the air of trained fighting men.

Not only trained but trained to fight together. Conan saw this in their movements and in that saw danger. Three men were not enough to overcome him swiftly, or indeed at all. They were doomed. They could also well take long enough dying to let their comrades reach Illyana and Raihna.

First of all, let us make this one and not two. Again Conan leaped backward, his sword cleaving the air to discourage too close a pursuit. He hoped for no more; a swordsman could hardly strike accurately without his feet firmly planted.

The arcing gray steel did its work. The three let Conan open the distance. One tried to close, drawing a second dagger. A desperate parry brought the dagger up as Conan's sword descended. The dagger flew with a clang and a clatter. A moment later the man sagged to his knees, clutching at his useless arm. Clear sight left his eyes as the blood left his body.

One of the man's comrades used his death well. He slipped past Conan to block the Cimmerian's passage forward. Another "peasant" joined the remaining man. If Conan tried to pass the first man, the other two would have time to come up behind him.

A sound stratagem, against any other man than Conan. They should have learned more about hillfolk before they tried to fight one, was his thought.

Conan leaped to the edge of the deck, then dropped onto the first sweep. The slaves' eyes grew round and their hands loosened their grip. The sweep slanted down and trailed, but Conan had already shifted his weight to the next one.

The man who'd thought to block Conan waited too long to believe what the Cimmerian had done. Raihna came leaping aft, like a she-lion upon prey. Her sword split the man's skull and her dagger drove into his bowels. He collapsed without a sound, dead too swiftly even to foul himself. Conan heaved himself back aboard, to stand beside Raihna.

"Leave these to me," she cried. "Look to Illyana!"

Frantic braying and the drumming of hooves sounded on the far side of the ferry. Hard on their heels came curses, then a shrill scream from Illyana.

Another cry hammered at Conan's ears as he pushed through the baggage and animals underneath the platform. He reached the open in time to see a "peasant" leap overboard, frantic to flee the peddler's mule. The beast was thrashing about madly, panic-stricken out of what wits he had. In another moment the panic would spread through all the animals aboard. Then Conan and his ladies would have more than Lord Houma's hired swords to concern them.

Illyana was backed against one of the platform's supporting posts, facing three foes. In his mind Conan both cursed her for coming down from comparative safety and praised her courage. She held a long dagger, the twin of Raihna's, with a trained grip. Her slow movements would still have done little against even one opponent, had they been free to come at her. For Illyana, the mule was as good as another guard. The men feared to come within reach of its hooves and teeth.

That fear gave Conan time he put to good use. One man died with his skull split before he knew a foe stood behind him. The second whirled, sword leaping up to guard. He was both subtle and strong. Conan knew that he had the edge on the man, but would have to take care.

The meeting of two expert swordsmen drove the maddened mule back. The last man found a gap and slipped through it. He had no sword, but his two knives danced with swift assurance against Illyana's clumsy parries. He might have been playing with her, seeking to put her in fear and see her cringe and sweat before taking her life.

Conan cursed and shouted for Raihna, neither of which he expected to do much good. Something that Illyana could do, on the other hand—

"Put a spell on him, can't you?" he roared. "Or what good is your magic?"

"Better than you would dare to believe, Cimmerian!" Illyana shouted. A lucky parry held one knife away from her left breast. She gripped the man's other arm and held on with desperate strength.

Conan knew that neither her strength nor her desperation would be enough for long. If either failed before he could deal with this opponent—

"Then if it's so cursed good!—"

"It—is—not swifter—than—uhhh!" as the man tore his arm free. Illyana drove her knee up toward his groin but he shifted his footing so that she only struck his hip. A moment later one hand was wound in her hair while the other raised a knife toward her throat.

In that same moment Conan's sword found his opponent's life. Shoulder and chest poured blood onto already-stained robes. The man neither cried out nor fell. Instead he lurched toward Conan, still a barrier between him and Illyana, who had only a few heartbeats of life left to her.

As the knife blade touched Illyana's throat, a loop of iron chain tightened around the knife wielder's foot.

He kicked to clear his foot, sending himself off balance. The chain tightened again, pulling him away from Illyana. He threw out an arm to save himself— and Conan's sword came down on that arm. Severed arm and knife wielder fell to the deck at the same time.

Illyana stood, gripping the post with one hand. The other she held to her throat, stroking it as if she could scarcely believe it was not gaping from ear to ear. Her dagger lay unheeded on the deck. Conan picked it up and handed it to her.

"Don't ever let loose of your steel until the last enemy's dead!"

She swallowed and licked full lips. Her face would have made fresh milk look brightly colored, and a vein pulsed in the side of her long neck. She swallowed again, then sagged forward into Conan's arms.

It was not fainting. She babbled words that would have made no sense even in a language Conan understood and gripped him with arms seemingly turned to iron. Conan freed his sword arm and put the other around her, holding her as he might have held a puppy or a kitten.

Under the sorceress was enough woman to crave a man's touch when she needed assurance. Conan would leave matters there. To steal her maidenhood would be the kind of theft he had always disdained even as a new-fledged thief in Zamora. It was still not unpleasant to find in Illyana more kinship with ordinary folk than he'd ever expected to find in a sorceress.

"Come," he said at last. "Embracing men is like dropping your steel. Best save it until we've heard from our last enemy." Gently he pushed her away, then followed the chain around the dead man's leg to the edge of the deck and looked down.

One of the slaves stood on tiptoe, staring over the edge of the deck. There had been just enough slack in the chain that held him to his sweep to let him use it as a weapon.

"My friend," Conan said. "I don't know if you've earned yourself freedom or impalement." From the slave's gaunt face and lash-marked back, it seemed unlikely that he cared greatly.

The eyes in the gaunt face were still steady. So was the voice. "The master was plotting, and I owed him nothing. You be the judge of your debt to me, you and your woman."

"I'm not—" Illyana began indignantly, then found the strength to laugh. She was still laughing when Raihna appeared, wiping blood from her sword.

"The two you left me are both down, Conan. One may live to answer questions if you have any. Oh, our friend speaks the truth about the master. He was to join the fight, too, but lost his courage at the last moment."

"Where is he?"

"Clinging for his life to the end of the skiff's line," Raihna said with a wicked grin. "The two hands threw him overboard and cut it loose. They were still well short of the bank when it sank under them. One of them could swim. I saw him clambering up the bank."

Conan wished sunstroke, snakebite, and thirst upon the treacherous hand and strode aft. The master was no longer pale, but red as if scalded with the effort of hanging to the line.

"For the love of the gods, don't let me drown!" he wheezed. "I can't swim."

"The gods don't love traitors and neither do I," Conan said. "Nor does Lord Mishrak."

The master nearly lost his grip on the line. "You serve Mishrak!"

"I can make him interested in you or not, as I choose. It lies in your hands."

"Then have mercy! To name me to Mishrak—would you slay me and all my kin?"

"I'd see you drown without blinking," Conan said brusquely. "Your kin may be worth more. Tell me what you know about these knifeman and I may hold my tongue."

For a man nearly at his last gasp, the master managed to tell a great deal in a short time. It appeared that the knifeman were indeed Lord Houma's. The master had never heard of Master Eremius or the Jewels of Kurag, nor did Conan choose to inform him.

At last the master began to repeat himself. Conan decided that there was little more to be heard worth the danger of losing the man to the river.

He reached down, heaved the man aboard, then shook him over the side like a wet dog. When he finally set the master down, the man's knees buckled. Conan tied his hands behind his back with his own belt.

"You swore—" the master began.

"I didn't swear a thing. You don't need hands to give orders. All you need is a tongue you had best shape to something like respect. Or I may kick you overboard and not trouble Mishrak with the work of learning any more from you."

The master turned pale again and sat mute as a stone, watching Conan turn forward and stride away.

It was a while before they could bring the ferry to a safe landing on the far bank of the Shimak. The master could barely speak at all. The peddler and his boy seemed concerned only that their mule was unhurt.

"Demons take you!" Conan swore at their fifth refusal to help handle the ferry. "Will it help your precious pet if he dies of thirst or drowns in the rapids?"

"When we know Lotus is well, then you can call on us," the peddler said. "Until then, leave us."

"Please, lady," the boy added, addressing Illyana. "If you can do magic, can you do a healing on Lotus? We couldn't pay very much, but we'd miss him a lot."

Conan wrestled notions of spanking the boy or throwing the mule overboard. It helped that Illyana was smiling at the boy.

"My magic isn't the kind that can help animals," she said. "But my sister was raised around horses. Perhaps she can help you."

Conan strode away with a curse, as Raihna knelt to take the mule's left hind foot in both hands.

It was Massouf, the slave who'd saved Illyana, who finally brought them to safety. Freed from his chains with a key Conan found in the master's purse (along with a good sum in gold that he decided the master had no further use for), Massouf put his comrades to some sort of regular stroke. With Conan to lend strength if not skill to the steering oar, they eventually crunched ashore some ways downstream.

"We're in your debt once more," Illyana said, as she emerged from behind a boulder in clean garb. "You already have your freedom. Is there more we can give? We are not ill-provided with gold—"

"Best not say that too loudly, my lady," Massouf said. "Even the rocks may have ears. But if you have gold to spare—" For the first time he seemed to lose his self-assurance, so unlike a slave's.

"If you have gold, I beg you to take it to the house of Kimon in Gala and buy the slave girl Dessa. They will ask much for her, comely as she is. But if you free her, I will be your slave if I can repay you no other way."

"What was she to you?" Raihna said. "We are not unwilling—"

"We were betrothed, when—what made us both slaves came about. It was ordered that we be sold separately, and each serve as hostage for the other. Otherwise, we would long since have fled or died together."

Conan heard an echo of his own thoughts as a slave in the young man's words. "What made you turn against your master this time? If Dessa is still a slave—"

"If you perished, Captain, I would not long outlive you. All the slaves would have been impaled as rebels. That is the law. With no hold over Dessa, Kimon might have sold her to Vendhya, or slain her outright." He straightened. "I had nothing to lose by aiding you."

"Mishrak didn't send us out here to rescue slave girls," Conan growled.

"He didn't send you out here to be rescued by slaves, either," Massouf said cheerfully. "But that's been your fate. Take it as a sign from the gods, Captain."

"You may take this as a sign to hold your tongue," Conan said, raising one massive fist. "I'm a good deal closer than the gods, too. Never fear. We'll pay a visit to Gala and free your Dessa. We'll even pay for her out of your master's gold." Conan hefted the master's purse. "If Kimon thinks this isn't enough, I'll show him reason to change his mind.

"But don't think you can jaunt along with us beyond Gala! Or I'll send your name to Mishrak, for keeping us from going about his business!"

Seven

THEY RODE INTO Gala as sunset flamed in the west. The Three Coins, where Dessa had worked, lay shuttered and silent, its garden a rank tangle of weeds. Inquiries of passing villagers took them to the Horned Wolf at the far end of the village. Illyana's nostrils flared in distaste as she contemplated the second inn.

"Is that the best we can hope for?"

"That depends, mistress," Conan said. Tales of the battle at the ferry might well have reached Gala already. It still seemed best to continue their masquerade until they knew it was useless.

"On what?"

"On how comfortable you find sleeping in open fields among sheep turds. The Horned Wolf may offer only lice-ridden straw, but—"

"You lie! Not the smallest louse ever found a home in my inn!"

A broad, florid face topped by a haystack of gray hair thrust itself out the nearest window. The woman shook her fist at Conan and drew in breath for another accusation.

"Mistress," Conan said, in a chill voice. "Perhaps the sheep will offer better hospitality. Turds and all, they'll not call us liars."

Ruddiness turned to pallor at the prospect of losing a customer.

"Forgive me, my lord and ladies. I meant no insult, You'd have a cold hard bed with the sheep. I swear I can offer better than that."

"We're neither lords nor ladies," Raihna snapped. "We're honest merchants, who know what a thing's worth. We can also recognize lice when we see them. Now, what are your prices?"

Conan let Raihna do the bargaining, with accustomed skill. He used the time to study the village, with an eye to where the houses might let foes wait in ambush. He also took a moment to counsel Massouf to stop fidgeting.

"You'll make the whole village remember you without freeing Dessa a moment sooner. She'll not thank you if that keeps her captive."

From Massouf's horror-stricken gape, this was clearly a new idea. Conan's curses were silent; they owed Massouf too much.

At last Raihna struck a bargain that Conan suspected was nothing of the kind, from the glee on the old woman's face. Louse-ridden straw still offered more comfort than stones. Perhaps the woman also knew where Dessa was.

They ate their own food but drank the inn's wine, near kin to vinegar. Two women brought it, both looking old enough to be Pyla's mother.

At last Conan felt he could cease insulting his stomach without insulting their hostess.

"Goodwife," he called. "The last time I was here I stayed at the Three Coins. They had a fine dancing girl who went by the name of Dessa. She wore rose scent and precious little else. It would be worth much, to see her dance again."

"Ah, you'll have to guest with Lord Achmai. Not that he's much of a lord, but he does have the Hold. He'd long had his eye on Dessa too. When Master Kimon died, he left so many debts that his kin were glad to sell all they could. Dessa went up to the Hold, and Mitra only knows what happened to her then."

Conan ignored strangled noises from Massouf. "What's this 'Hold'? I saw no such thing, the last time."

"Oh, perhaps you did. But it was only a ruin then. Achmai's put it to rights. Even in the old days it couldn't have been half so fine. Lord Achmai struts around now, like he was one of the Seventeen Attendants."

Conan made some ill-natured sounds of his own. This part of Turan was dotted with the old forts of the robber lords who'd infested the countryside before the early kings put them down. From time to time some lordling would bribe a governor to let him move back into one of them.

Doubtless Achmai would overreach himself one day. Then Mughra Khan would descend on the Hold with an army and an executioner. That would help neither Dessa nor those who wished to rescue her tonight.

"Well, I shall see if Lord Achmai's hospitality is worth having," Conan said, feigning doubts. "Who knows? If he's open-handed, perhaps I'll come back to serve him when my mistress and her sister are safe with their kin."

"Oh, he'll not refuse a fine stout young soldier like yourself," the innkeeper said. She giggled lewdly.

"Nor will the women he keeps, I'll wager. Half the men in his service are old enough to be father to such as you."

"How can you stand here talking, when Mitra only knows what Dessa may be suffering?" Massouf shouted. "Mistress, you owe me—ukkkh!"

A massive Cimmerian hand closed on the neck of Massouf's tunic. An equally massive arm lifted him until his feet were kicking futilely in the air two hands above the floor.

With a harsh ripping, the filthy tunic gave way. Massouf thumped in a heap on the floor. He glared at Conan but the look on the Cimmerian's face froze the words on his lips.

"Outside!" Conan snarled. Massouf regained his feet and bolted as if the inn had caught fire. The women followed at a more dignified pace.

Conan said only the smallest part of what he wanted to say, nor did he raise his voice. He still left Massouf looking much like a recruit caught stealing. At last the young man fell to his knees, not to beg mercy but because his legs would no longer support him.

Illyana turned her gaze from the sable sky above to Conan. "I wonder now about the wisdom of trying to rescue Dessa."

Massouf leaped up, with a choking cry. "Lady, for the love of all the gods—!"

"Leave the gods in peace, and us as well," Illyana snapped. "Because I say I wonder about something, does not mean I will not do it. I use my wits before I use my tongue. Do not think that I have as little honor as you have discretion!"

"What will you do if I think otherwise?" Massouf said uneasily. "Turn me into a frog?"

"Turn you into something useless to Dessa or any other woman, more likely," Illyana said. Her smile grew wicked. "If you spend less of your few wits on women, you will have more to spend on other matters.

"Now be silent. You can hardly help us rescue your Dessa. Have the goodness not to hinder us. Now, I must seek something in my baggage. I shall return as swiftly as I can."

Conan much doubted that anything short of stuffing Massouf into a sack would silence him. Nonetheless, he and Raihna took places where they could see each other, Massouf, and all approaches to Horned Wolf. They would also have a quick and safe way to the stables.

The last glimmers of light died in the village and the west. Even the cries of the night birds fell silent, as one by one they found their nests. In the stables a horse stamped restlessly; another whickered softly.

"Raihna,?"

"You fear for Illyana?"

"She's been inside a good while. Our innkeeper may have decided to settle matters herself."

"Her and what army, Conan? I've seen only lads and women inside. Illyana's no fool. If she's to be taken, it will need more than our hostess—"

The inn door creaked open and a woman appeared. She moved with the gliding step of an accomplished dancer and the sway of a woman who knows everything about exciting men. She was of Illyana's height but a trifle less slender in those places where it mattered, fairer of skin and with hair that fell in a crimson cascade over freckled shoulders. Conan could see all the freckles, for the woman wore only a brief silk garment that covered her from breasts to loins.

Massouf stared as if he had indeed become a frog. At last he closed his mouth and stepped forward, reaching for the woman. Her hand leaped toward his, then batted it playfully aside.

"Come, come, Massouf. Have you forgotten Dessa so swiftly?"

Massouf swallowed. "I have not. But if she is in the Hold, perhaps I should. Will you help me forget her? I have—"

"Massouf, my friend," the woman said again. "I will do better than that. I will help her escape from Lord Achmai and all his old soldiers. She deserves a—"

"By Crom!" Conan growled. He'd finally recognized the voice and set aside the evidence of his eyes. "Mistress Illyana, or have my ears been spelled as well as my eyes?"

"Ah, Conan, I thought you would not be long in seeing through the glamouring. I do not imagine that Lord Achmai or his men will be as keen of ear or wits.''

"Very likely not," Conan said. "But what good is that going to do us?"

"Conan, we do not know what we face in the Hold. I much doubt that even you could snatch Dessa from within it unaided."

'That doesn't mean your help will be better than none. If I had Raihna's—"

"Oh, we both will. I will go with you and use this glamouring. When Achmai and his men are thoroughly bemused, you will seek and rescue Dessa. Raihna and Massouf will await us outside, to help us if we need it and cover our retreat."

Raihna had her mouth open to protest, but Massouf silenced her by falling on his knees before Illyana. He threw his arms around her waist and pressed his face into her supple belly.

"Mistress, oh, mistress, forgive me that I doubted you! Forgive me—"

"I will forgive you much and that swiftly if you stop blubbering and stand like a man. Dessa will need one when she is free, not a whimpering child." Slowly Massouf obeyed.

"I've heard worse schemes," Conan said. "I'll go as a soldier looking for work. You can enter the Hold disguised as a man. Or will that glamouring hold for a whole day?"

"Not without more effort than I could make and still be fit for other work," Illyana admitted. "I am not using the Jewel for this. Not unless all else fails. Together, the Jewels build each other's strength. Apart, each Jewel must be rested between spells."

"I'll leave the magic to you," Conan said, resting a hand on his sword hilt. "Now I'd best find out where the Hold lies. If it's close enough, I can spy it out tonight and return before dawn. If we know beforehand—"

"Oh, you have no need to trouble yourself, Conan." Illyana's smile held a sensuousness that Conan much doubted was all the glamouring.

"How is that? Did you read our hostess's thoughts?"

"Just so. She came by and asked what I wanted in our chambers. While she was close, I read in her thoughts that she would send warning and where she would send it. Then I altered her thoughts. She will send warning only of those who will come to the Hold tomorrow night—you and I."

"Well and good." That sounded grudging and mean, even to Conan's ears. By Crom, good work was good work, even if a sorceress did it! Why complain about your sword because the smith was loose-living?

"I'm grateful, Mistress Illyana. Now, let's agree on a place to meet if you must flee this inn. Then I'll be off to the Hold—"

"You have little need to roam this nighted land, Conan. The innkeeper has been at the Hold. What I took from her mind, I can show you."

Ice filled Conan's bowels. Put himself at the mercy of a spell reaching into his mind?

"It is my spell, Conan. Surely you can trust me? And no, I did not read your thoughts. You spoke aloud without knowing it."

"Captain Conan, if I might speak—" began Massouf.

"Would you care if I said no?"

Massouf laughed. "It is only that you do not know what you may face there. I am sure Mistress Illyana will do all that she can. But unless she can conjure up dragons and trolls, you will have much hard work. Why not save your strength for it?"

"I suppose your first post as a free man will be advising King Yildiz on strategy," Conan growled. "There may be some sense in what you say, if our hostess can tell a gate tower from a privy!"

"Trust her, Conan," Raihna said. "Everything the innkeeper has ever seen, you will see as clearly as if you were there yourself. You can learn enough and still sleep tonight."

All three of them were right, much as Conan disliked admitting it. Rescuing Dessa at all was crackbrained enough; why make matters worse?

His eyes met Raihna's, and she smiled. Conan had no art of reading thoughts, but hers were plain on her face. She was not saving his strength entirely for fighting, and as for sleep, she did not intend to allow him much.

Eight

GRAVEL RATTLED UNDER the hooves of the hired horses as Conan and Illyana reined in before the frowning gate of Achmai's Hold. The stout timbers were yet unweathered and the massive iron hinges showed only a faint tinge of rust.

Otherwise the ruddy stone walls stood much as they had for centuries. Conan had seen a few of these old bandit-lords' strongholds and heard tales of many. This seemed larger than most. When it rose on the hill, the looting must have been good.

From a tower to the right of the gate, a voice hailed them.

"Who comes?"

"Two soldiers, seeking speech with Lord Achmai."

"Why should he speak with soldiers?"

"Does he then hire men unseen and unheard?"

"You wish to enter his service?"

"If his service seems fit for us, yes."

Two heads thrust out of the tower. One was shaven, the other wore an old cavalry' helmet Under the scrutiny, Conan saw unease in Illyana's eyes. He could see nothing else, so thoroughly did her man's garb conceal her. Had he not known she was a woman, he himself would have taken her for a youth.

"Is this wise?" she whispered. "Speaking as though we do Achmai a favor by seeking his service?"

"No soldier with pride in his sword does otherwise," Conan assured her. "If I spoke otherwise, they grow suspicious."

Before Illyana could reply, the voice hailed them again.

"Enter, and be welcome."

The size of the courtyard within the walls told Conan that indeed this had once been a mighty fortress. Now the courtyard was half-filled with outbuildings, stout but roughly-built stables, sheds, and. barracks. Only the keep had been restored to its original strength, and the Great Hall to at least some of its original splendor.

Six men met them in the center of the courtyard. Their arms were well-kept and their clothes clean, if ragged. Their features bore the stamp of more different races than Conan could have numbered on the fingers of both hands.

"We'll take your horses," one said. He seemed to be mostly a Shemite, with a hint of Vanir in the fairness of his beard.

"Show us the stable, and we'll lead them there ourselves," Conan said. Like the horses, the saddles were hired. The saddlebags bore certain items best not closely examined.

The fair-bearded Shemite seemed to hesitate, then shrugged. "As you wish."

The quick yielding made Conan more suspicious than a long argument. He signed Illyana to stay mounted. The gate was still open. If the worst came, she'd have a hope of flight.

The Cimmerian swung lithely from his saddle and strode to the head of the horses. As he took the reins, he felt a hand on the hilt of his sword.

The reins flew from Conan's hands as he whirled. One hand seized the sword hilt and the intruder's hand, imprisoning it as if a boulder had fallen upon it. The other hand paused only long enough to clench into a fist. Then it crashed into a beardless jaw. The intruder flew backward to spread-eagle himself on the stones.

Conan glared down at him. "Learn to keep your hands off other men's swords, my young friend. The next lesson may cost more than a sore jaw."

Only then did the Cimmerian notice that Fairbeard and the rest were watching him with catlike attention. He almost drew his sword. Then Fairbeard laughed.

"Well done, my friend. It will be worth Lord Achmai's while to speak with you."

"That's as may be," Conan said. "Now, what test shall I set him, to be sure it's worth my speaking with him?"

Again the sky outside held only stars. The men gathered in the Great Hall had better light. Torches blazed in iron sconces along the walls, and lamps filled with scented oil glowed on the high table.

Lord Achmai grinned at Conan and arranged his oily black beard with a beringed hand.

"You should have come to me at once, after your old master's death. You'd have been high in my service long since."

"I had to see the widow and her sister safe to their kin," Conan replied. His fingers were making short work of a fat quail, slow-roasted and stuffed with succulent fruit and herbs. "My oath would have bound me, if common sense had not."

"Ah yes. You Cimmerians put much stock in your oaths, when you bother to take them."

Conan knew a chill along his spine. To be recognized as a Cimmerian was not a common experience. Was Achmai playing with him again?

"Will you tell me that I was mistaken, in calling you Cimmerian?" the man added. "If that blood shames you—"

"Ha! I know my forefathers and kin as well as you do."

Probably better, in truth. The innkeeper said that Achmai's family had been lords for five generations. Perhaps they had, if one counted lordship of another's kitchen or stables.

"Doubtless. It is only that one seldom sees a man of your coloring who is not a Cimmerian. And one sees few Cimmerians in Turan."

"Most of us have the sense to stay at home, where we need not listen to insults," Conan growled, with a grim smile to set Achmai at ease.

"Well, if you have the greater sense to come to me, when you have no more duty to your ladies, there will be a place for you. Likewise for your comrade.

"As for Dessa, whom you sought—-you need seek no further."

Once more Conan contemplated the serving girls, clad only in nearly transparent trousers with bells on wrists and ankles. Once more he saw none who could be the Dessa Massouf had described.

Then a drum began a swift, insistent beat, and a girl danced into the room. She wore only a short robe of transparent red silk, and that cut so that it flew out like wings as she whirled. Otherwise she wore only bells, not just at wrists and ankles but at her throat, in her ears, and on a silver chain at her waist. The torchlight played on her oiled skin, sometimes wreathing her in light, sometimes revealing her more clearly.

Back and forth across the room she wove a path of tinkling bells, light, and lush beauty. Conan had seen fairer women, but never one so likely to make a man forget them.

Her path wove closer to the high table. Closer still—and Achmai's arm shot out like a javelin. The beringed fingers snatched the robe from Dessa's shoulders, waving it like a trophy.

The men cheered. Dessa grinned and executed a somersault that slapped her feet down on either side of Conan's plate. Then she leaped up, flowed down, and flung her arms around Conan.

Two perfumed breasts enveloped his face, but his ears were free to hear the roars of laughter. He also caught a glimpse of Illyana. Again he could see only her eyes, but they told him clearly enough that she was in a cold rage. The Cimmerian contemplated what might happen if that rage turned hot.

Conan wondered if it would have been wiser to come here openly, invoking Mishrak's name to gain Dessa's release. Most likely, disguise had been the best course. Achmai had gold from somewhere far beyond this province, perhaps beyond Turan. He would not enjoy having Mishrak learn where, and he had two-score well-trained and well-armed men to guard his secrets.

Dessa turned a back somersault off the table, landing on the piled rugs, flaming scarlet and orange with threads of gold woven into their swirling patterns.

Almost as easily as if she'd risen to her feet, she stood on her hands, waved a foot at the drummer, and began once more to sway to his beat.

As Dessa's gleaming body blazed against the rugs, Conan felt as if he sat between two blazing hearths.

A strangled cry burst from Illyana. She leaped up from the table, knocking her plate to the floor. She clutched her wine cup as she fled, but dropped it as she vanished out the door of the Hall. The guards were too bedazzled by Dessa to stop her.

"What means this?" Achmai said. His voice was even, but his hand was close to his sword hilt. "Is your companion so young he cannot bear the sight of a woman?"

"Or would he prefer the sight of a man?" shouted someone. "No doubt Pahlos could oblige him—"

"Oh, bite your tongue out and your cods off," snarled someone else, likely enough Pahlos.

"Silence!" Achmai roared. His eyes drifted back to Conan.

"Oh, you will find little to complain of in my companion," Conan said. "Perhaps the flux he had last year is returning. We shall doubtless learn soon enough. If you have any potions—"

"Oh, we know how to ease the flux," Achmai said. His smile did not reach his eyes. "We also know how to cure liars and fools."

"You will not need those cures tonight," Conan said, with an ease he did not altogether feel. Erlik take the woman, what is she planning? Or have the wits to plan deserted her now, of all times?

"I hope not," Achmai said. "Dessa has given us all too much pleasure, to have the evening end in a quarrel."

Dessa had indeed given pleasure. Conan began to doubt that returning the girl to her betrothed was going to be half as simple as he'd expected.

Dessa knew the power her dancing gave her over men. Knew it and savored it like fine wine. Conan could not imagine her putting all that behind her to settle down as the wife of a clerk and the mother of a pack of squalling brats.

Well, that was Massouf's problem. Conan had his own, a well-formed one named Illyana. Where had that magic-wielding wench taken herself, and how long would it take before Achmai sent his men in search of her?

At least Dessa was still dancing. If Achmai ordered his men out of the hall before she stopped, he'd have a mutiny on his hands!

Dessa's dancing now grew slower, as her strength at last began to flag. She knelt, swaying her torso back and forth until it was almost level and her breasts rose almost straight up. Her belly rippled, her arms curved and recurved, her bells made wicked music, and the light gleamed still brighter as sweat joined the oil on her skin.

At last she found the strength to execute a final somersault. She landed on her back, feet resting on the high table. Achmai pushed a cup of wine between them. The long toes curled, then gripped. Slowly, without spilling a drop, Dessa rocked back on her haunches. Still more slowly, using her hands only for_ balance, she brought the cup to her lips. Silence as thick as a fog on the Vilayet Sea filled the room.

Then the silence shattered, as the door guards sprang aside and Illyana returned.

She returned with the glamour upon her, so that she seemed as she had when first Conan saw it. He was proof against the surprise that stunned every man in the room.

He was not proof against the sensuality wafting like perfume from Illyana's magical image. No woman he had ever bedded had so heated his blood. He gulped wine, and found it odd that the wine did not boil in his throat!

All this, with Illyana only standing in the doorway. To be sure, she was clad only in a gilded loinguard and a silver ring about her red hair, from which flowed a long red veil. Firm young breasts with rouged nipples, a faintly curved belly, legs that seemed to go on without end—all lay bare to the eye, all glowed with oil or magic or both.

"You rogue!" Achmai growled. He seemed to be having difficulty breathing, for it was some moments before he could say more. Then he added, "Were you traveling with that?"

"Kindly refer to the woman as her," Conan said with a broad grin. "Or do you think she is some wizard's creation?"

"Ah—well, there's magic in her, more than in most women. But—to think of hiding her!"

"Does a wise man show a purse of gold to a band of robbers?"

Achmai was too bemused by Illyana to reply for a moment. Conan used that moment to study the room. If Illyana truly needed her maidenhood to work her magic, she'd best have ready to hand either mighty spells or a fleet pair of heels.

"Such a woman—it's an insult to compare her to gold," Achmai said at last. Something seemed to be stuck in his throat. He was trying to clear it with wine when Illyana began dancing.

Clearly there was only Illyana's own suppleness and skill under the glamouring. She did not vie with Dessa in somersaults and other feats. Nor did any music follow her, except the beat of the drum when the drummer stopped gaping like a thirsty camel.

Instead she whirled across the floor, her feet moving too fast for even Conan's eye to follow. She wove a complex path among the rugs, over and around the piles, swaying from head to toe like a blade of grass in a spring breeze. Her head swung from side to side, tossing the veil. Not that it concealed anything even in those rare moments when it hung straight.

Conan felt his head pounding with more than the fire in his blood and the beat of the drum. He turned his wine cup mouth down and searched for Dessa. She stood by the doorway, ignoring one of the guards' arms resting lightly across her shoulders. She stared at Illyana with the look of a barely-fledged journeyman watching a master display her art.

Now Illyana bent down, one leg thrust out gracefully for balance, swaying as she gripped a rug. A howl of outrage rose as she lifted the rug and wrapped it around herself from neck to knees. Then it died as she whirled across the room again.

Far from concealing her movements, the thick rug seemed to make them more provocative. Crimson and wine patches leaped like flames under the thrust of hips and breasts.

A spearlike thrust of Illyana's head cast the veil aside. It floated across the hall as if a breeze blew it. Conan knew magic lifted it. No one else knew or cared. Tables tilted, spilling their loads, or toppled entirely as men leaped for the veil. A half-score reached it in the same moment. Without drawing steel, they rent it into a piece for each man.

Or had the veil rent itself, before the men reached it? Conan could not have sworn one way or the other.

Illyana now essayed a somersault. The rug stayed almost in place. Magic, of a certainty. Again Conan saw none who seemed to either understand or care.

The headring leaped free of Illyana's flame-hued hair. It rolled across the floor, chiming with an insistent, maddening music, avoiding all the rugs. It rolled almost to Achmai's feet before anyone thought to catch it.

Before any could move, Achmai's hand snatched up the ring. Conan noted the sureness and grace of the man's movement. He would still be clear of wit and swift of sword if matters came to a fight.

Then everyone surged to his feet as Illyana cast off the rug and the loinguard in the same movement. The rug rolled itself up as it crossed the floor. The loinguard flew like an arrow to Conan's outthrust hand.

"Cimmerian, my friend," Achmai said. "I offer you and your—friend—a place in my service. Now, next year, five years from now. What me gods allow me to give you, you shall have!

"Only—that woman..I want her for a night. Just one night. By all that either of us holds sacred, I will not force her or hurt her. No other shall so much as give her an unseemly look—"

"I call you friend too," Conan said, laughing. "But I also call you mad, if you think your men will cast no longing looks. Indeed, the lady would be much offended if they did otherwise. Only promise what the gods will allow you to do, and one thing more."

"Anything—if the gods allow it," Achmai said, without taking his eyes from Illyana's sinuous writhings.

She now lay on the rugs, describing a serpentine path toward the high table.

"Dessa, for tonight."

For a moment both wine and desire left Achmai's eyes and a shrewd bargainer looked out at Conan. Then the man nodded.

"As you wish." He clapped his hands. The guard removed his arm from Dessa's shoulder, patted her, and gave her a little shove. She strode across the room, head high, too proud to show that she knew every man's eye was on Illyana.

"Tonight, be a friend to this new friend of mine," Achmai said. "I did not think you found him unpleas-ing, and certainly no man ever found you so."

"As you wish, my lord," Dessa said, with a smile that widened as she saw Conan now had eyes only for her. "Since it is no secret that this is my wish too…"

She vaulted over the table and settled on Conan's lap. Illyana showed no sign of ending her dancing. Still less did she show any sign of telling Conan what her plans were—if any.

Conan had asked for Dessa with the notion that the closer she was to him, the easier their escape would be if matters went awry. Of course they might now go awry from Illyana's jealousy, but Conan knew no cure for jealous women and expected to find none tonight!

He shifted Dessa to a more comfortable position on one knee and picked up Illyana's discarded loinguard. As his fingers tightened on it, he felt a tingling. Surprised, he nearly dropped the garment. His fingers would not obey his will. The chilling presence of sorcery drove out both wine and pleasure in Dessa's company.

Then a familiar voice spoke in his mind:

Be at ease, Conan. I have other glamourings besides

this one. One of them will make Achmai think he has taken more pleasure from me than he could have imagined from six women. Neither of us will lose anything we yet need.

When I am done, I shall come to you. Be ready, and Dessa likewise.

The voice fell silent. The tingling ceased. Conan's fingers obeyed his will, and he stuffed the loinguard into his tunic.

Dessa ran her fingers up his arm and across his cheek. "Ah, you will soon forget her. That I swear."

Conan tightened his grip. Illyana seemed to have her wits about her, he had a willing bedmate for the night, and the rest could be left to chance.

Nine

DESSA LAY SNUGGLED on Conan's shoulder like a kitten. Had they been elsewhere, her gentle breathing might have lulled him as deeply asleep.

Instead he was as alert as if he had been standing sentry on the Hyrkanian frontier. Only a fool slept in the house of a man who might swiftly become an enemy, in spite of good wine and willing women.

A faint knocking sounded at the door. Conan listened for the rhythm until he heard three strokes, then one, then two. He pulled his sword out from under the blankets, padded catlike to the door, and drew the bolt.

Illyana stood in the doorway. She wore her man's clothing save for the headdress. Deep indigo circles beneath both eyes made them look twice as large as before, and her face was pale.

She stepped into the room, pushed the door shut, then slumped onto the chest beside the bed. Conan offered her wine. She shook her head.

"No. I am only a trifle weary. I would like to sleep, but not as soundly as our friend Achmai. He will have sweet dreams of what he thinks happened between us, as sweet any man could wish."

"How does a maiden sorceress learn of men's dreams after bedding a woman?"

Illyana shivered, then bowed her head. Her throat worked. For a moment Conan thought she was about to spew.

The moment passed. She drew in a rasping breath and stared at him without seeing.

"I have learned. That is all I can tell you."

With that look on her face, Conan would not have asked her more for the Crown of Turan. After a moment he drank the wine himself, donned his clothes, and set about waking Dessa.

From the wall outside, a sentry called.

"The fifth hour, and all's well!"

The sentry could barely be heard over the drunken snores of the men in the Great Hall. He also sounded a trifle drunk himself. He was still on duty, though, ready to give the alarm.

Conan led the way to the outer door of the hall, to find the door locked from the inside. Illyana stepped forward, holding up the arm bearing the Jewel of Kurag.

The Cimmerian shook his head. He had never studied under the master thieves of Zamora, men to whom no lock held many secrets for long. He could still open a crude lock such as this in less time and with less uproar than any spell.

Outside, the courtyard was deserted and seemingly lifeless. Only the faint glow of a brazier outside the stables showed a human presence. Conan gave the ruddy glow a sour look. Well, it was a soldier's luck, to find that the only place guarded was the one he wanted.

The cool night air awoke Dessa from her near-sleepwalking. She looked about her, and her dark eyes widened.

"What—where are you taking me? This is not the way to Lord Achmai's—"

"You will not be going back to him," Conan said. "We have come to take you to Massouf, your betrothed. He is wailing for you."

"Massouf? I thought he was long dead!"

"You received no messages from him?" Illyana asked. "He sent all he could."

"Oh, some reached me. But how could I believe them?"

Illyana looked bewildered.

"Believe me," Conan said. "It's easy to believe everyone's lying to you when you're a slave. Most do."

Dessa smiled, as if he had praised her dancing or beauty. Then her face changed to a mask of determination. She opened her mouth and drew in breath for a scream.

None but the Cimmerian could have silenced Dessa without hurting her. His massive arms held her as gently as an eggshell, but she could make no more sound than a man entombed.

As Conan shifted his grip, Illyana stepped close. One hand rested on Dessa's forehead. Conan felt a tingling in his arms, his head swam, and Dessa slumped boneless and senseless against him.

"What—what did you do?" The effort to stand and speak made his voice grate harshly. As through a mist, he saw light fading from within the Jewel.

"A simple sleeping spell."

"Cast so quickly?"

"Against Dessa, yes. Against someone alert and strong-willed, it would not be so easy. I would not care to cast it against you at all."

"So you say."

"Conan, you still see evil in my magic? What can I do to persuade you otherwise?"

The Cimmerian smiled grimly. "If your magic made me King of Aquilonia, I wouldn't call it good. I wouldn't call you evil, though."

Illyana contrived a smile. "With such crumbs I must be content, I suppose."

The brazier still glowed before the stable door when Conan's party reached it. The stable guards were nowhere to be seen. Illyana vanished into the stable to retrieve their mounts, while Conan laid Dessa on a bale of straw and drew his sword.

He had begun to think of searching for Illyana when the stable guards returned. Neither was quite sober, and they supported between them a giggling girl, less than half-clad and rather more than half-drunk.

"Ho, Cimmerian," one man called. "Come to join our sport?"

"It will be better sport if there's some wine," Conan replied.

"In truth," the second man said. "Faroush, go and find that jug you—"

"You go and find your jug," the first man began indignantly.

"What, and leave you alone with Chira?" the second man growled.

Faroush was about to reply when Illyana emerged from the darkness, leading the horses.

"Ho, ha, sweet lady. Have you come to dance for us?" said Faroush.

"In truth, no," Illyana said. "I beg you to excuse me." Her voice was steady, but to Conan her eyes had the look of a trapped animal's.

"Beg all you want," the second man said. His voice was all at once level, and his hand on the hilt of his sword. Conan marked him as the more dangerous.

"Again, I must say no," Illyana went on. "I am far too weary for any dancing that would please you."

"That I much doubt," said the second man. "It's the kind of dancing best done lying down, and—"

The man had talked a moment too long and not drawn his sword fast enough. A Cimmerian fist hammered into his jaw like a boulder. He flew backward, crashing into the stable door and sliding down to sprawl senseless in the dung-laden straw.

Faroush drew his sword, apparently sobered by his comrade's fate. Conan saw fear in his eyes, but in his stance and grip a determination to fight even against such an opponent.

Mishrak will want to know how Lord Achmai commands such men, was Conan's thought. For that matter, so do I.

Meanwhile, the girl had been swaying as she pulled her clothes into order. At last she drew a deep breath, and Conan cursed. From where he stood, he could only silence the girl by cutting her down, and that he would not do.

A moment later, the girl let out all her breath in a wild shriek.

"Help! Help! Guards! Thieves in the stables! Help! Help!"

Then she turned and ran. Faroush seemed to consider the alarm given and did the same, sword in hand.

Conan turned to Illyana. "Do you have a spell to speed our way out of here, by chance?"

Illyana frowned. "I cannot fly us all. Not the horses, certainly, and we will need them to outstrip—"

"Curse you, woman! Is this a time for bantering? Yes or no?"

"Yes. If you can give me a trifle of time and find some way to slow the pursuit."

Conan looked at the stable door. It looked stout enough to defy anything short of a battering ram or fire. Achmai's men would hardly burn the stable over the heads of their own horses.

Conan bent to pick up Dessa and jerked his head toward the stable. "Inside, and be quick about it."

The door crashed shut. Darkness embraced them. Conan fumbled for the bar. As he slid it into place, fists began pounding on the outside.

A dim emerald glow swelled behind him. He turned, to see the Jewel glowing on Illyana's wrist. She was taking off her tunic.

"What in Erlik's name—?"

Illyana drew her tunic off and bared all her teeth in a grin. "Have you never heard that one must be unclothed to cast a spell?"

"I've seen a good many women who could indeed cast spells unclothed, but they weren't your kind."

"Well, Cimmerian, you learn something new of magic every day you are in my company."

"Whether I wish it or not!"

Conan listened to the din outside the door, the shouts, the curses, the rasp of drawn swords, and a" few men trying to make their orders heard. By the time he knew they faced no immediate danger, Illyana was bare save for the Jewel on one wrist and a rune-carved ivory bracelet on the other.

The emerald light from the Jewel flowed over her fair skin, turning the hue of bronze long under the sea.

She might have been some Atlantean goddess, risen from the waves to strike at those who overthrew her city.

Conan drew his dagger and stalked down the line of horses, cutting their tethers or opening their stall doors. By the time all were free, Illyana was standing by her mount, wearing an impatient look as well as the Jewel and bracelet.

"All that I can do here has been done. It is time to ride."

Conan heaved Dessa over the neck of his horse and swung into the saddle. Illyana lifted the Jewel and chanted.

"Chaos, thrice-cursed, hear our blessing—" followed by something about twice as long in a tongue Conan neither knew nor wanted to know.

A whirlwind burst the straw and hay bales apart. The loose straw and hay rose above Conan's head, then fell back into a corner, piled as high as a man. As if kicked, the brazier toppled over, scattering burning coals into the straw and hay. Flames ran up the pile, touched the pitch-laden walls, and leaped toward the ceiling.

Then Illyana made a fist of the hand bearing the Jewel and brought it down like a blacksmith's hammer. The stable door burst apart as if a battering ram had indeed struck it.

"Hiyaaa!"

Conan screamed the war cries of half a dozen races as he spurred his horse into the ranks of Achmai's men. His broadsword leaped and flashed in the firelight, slashing to either side.

He still made poor practice. His mount was hardly war-trained, besides carrying double. It mattered little, since his foes were scattering even as he reached them. A good many had fallen to the scything timbers of the stable door. The rest might have fought against men, but not against magic. Illyana's appearance, nude and blazing with emerald light, finished them.

It was as well that the courtyard was swiftly clear. Illyana had to ride thrice in a circle, chanting more arcane words, before flame leaped once more from the Jewel. It struck once, twice, at each hinge and fastening of the gate. At each stroke of fire, metal smoked, then melted and ran. A final stroke pushed the gates down altogether, like a child pushing down a sand castle.

Over the smoldering ruins of the gates, Conan and Illyana rode into the night.

They stopped about halfway back to the meeting place with Raihna and Massouf, to rest the horses and listen for sounds of pursuit. Conan heard none, nor was Illyana much surprised.

"Few of the horses will take much harm, if the men lead them out of the stable in time. Fewer still will be fit for work tonight."

"They won't be coming after me?" Dessa sounded half-outraged, half-relieved.

"With no horses and their chief so sound asleep an earthquake couldn't wake him? Those are men, not wizards!" Conan growled.

"She's a wizard," Dessa said, pointing at Illyana. "And you're some kind of soldier. Why did you take me away from the Hold?"

"We told you. We are returning to your betrothed."

Illyana burrowed into her saddlebags and started pulling out clothes. She had ridden naked from the Hold, uncaring of the night chill.

Dessa was less enduring. She snatched the clothes from Illyana, then dropped them as if they were an armful of nettles.

"Now what?" Conan growled.

"I won't wear her clothes. They might be tainted with her magic."

"Then wear mine," Conan said. One of his tunics came down nearly to Dessa's knees, but it did more or less clothe her.

"I suppose I should thank you," Dessa said at last. "But—did you ever think I might have wanted to stay? I did, you know."

Conan's and Illyana's eyes met above Dessa's head. The sorceress was the first to find her tongue.

"Dessa, Massouf loves you. Or so he says," she added.

"What he says and what he does are two different things, lady. His real love is gold. That's why he was enslaved. Even if he'd succeeded at his schemes, he wouldn't have given me half as much as Achmai and his men. I was better off even at the Three Coins, for Mitra's sake!"

She looked beseechingly at Conan. "Captain, if I might have something for my feet, I'll trouble you no more. I can make my own way back to—"

"Crom!" The oath flew out of Conan's mouth like the flame from the Jewel. Both women flinched. Conan drew breath.

"Dessa, we swore an oath to bring you back to Massouf. We're somewhat in his debt. The gods do not love unpaid debts." Dessa opened her mouth but a glare from Conan pushed the words back into it unuttered.

"You won't find yourself welcome back at the Hold, either," Conan went on. "They can't be sure you didn't want to escape. You'll be scrubbing the pots and being scrubbed out by the potboys if you go back."

Dessa still looked obstinate. "If you don't fear the gods or Achmai's men, try fearing me," Conan finished. "Dessa, if you take one step toward the Hold, you'll have to meet Massouf standing. I'll leave you in no state to sit down!"

Silently consigning all women to a place as far as possible from him, Conan unhooked the water bottles and went in search of a spring.

Ten

THEY RODE OUT at dawn, as the Iranistanis measured it—when a man could tell a black horsehair from a white one.

For a while Conan and Raihna led their mounts, to ease their way across the broken ground. With the two hired horses for Dessa and Massouf, no one needed to ride double for lack of mounts.

Lack of riding skill was another matter. Dessa rode like a sack of grain and Massouf hardly better. If it came to swift flight, Conan and Raihna would be taking their saddle-shy charges up on their own mounts.

So far they had seen no sign of pursuit, and Conan aimed to put off that moment as long as possible. They kept away from the main roads and indeed from the greater part of the mountain byways. Sheep tracks or bare hillside saw them pass, and of men only an occasional herdsman and once a hermit.

"They are a close-mouthed breed, these mountain folk," Conan said. "Oh, gold or torture can open their mouths like any man's. But it takes a while. Besides, torturing free Turanians is a fine way for Achmai to lose whatever good will he has in Aghrapur."

"Their flocks can see anything the herdsmen see," Illyana said.

"All the sheep and goats I've known were even more close-mouthed than the herdsmen," Conan replied, with a grin. It was a fine fair morning and although tired he was in high good humor. A battle fairly fought and splendidly won always left him so.

"There are ways to make even the dumb speak," Illyana said soberly.

"How?" Conan laughed. "I can just imagine Achmai shouting at a ram—'Who passed this way yesterday? Answer, or I'll roast you for our dinner!' I can't imagine him getting an answer."

"Not that way, no."

Conan's grin twisted. "Are there spells for making animals speak?"

"For learning what they have seen, yes."

"Does Achmai command them?" The upland morning suddenly seemed as cold as a Cimmerian autumn.

"Neither he nor anyone who serves him commands any magic. But if he wished vengeance enough and knew of Eremius—the Master of the other Jewel knows all the spells. He might even have learned to cast them over such a distance. It has been ten years since we met. I no longer can be sure I know everything he does."

She forced a smile. "At least there is one consolation. He can no longer be sure that he knows everything I know. And I have not spent those ten years in idleness or debauchery."

The smile widened. "Why, Conan, I truly begin to think you are curious about magic. Are you becoming willing to live with it?"

"Maybe, when I can't live without it," Conan growled. "Of course, I can live with the kind of magic you danced up, any day or night. I wonder if your whole scheme came from wanting to show yourself like that—"

The smile vanished and the fair skin flushed. Illyana dropped back to ride beside Dessa and Massouf. Conan spurred forward, to ride level with Raihna, muttering rude remarks about women who could be neither chaste nor unchaste.

"That was an ill-spoken jest," Raihna said, when the Cimmerian fell silent.

"Am I to learn why, or must I guess?"

"You will learn if Illyana chooses to tell you. Not otherwise. It is not my secret to tell."

"Not telling me all I need to know is sending me into this fight blind."

"Ah, Conan. Surely not that. One-eyed at worst."

"That's bad enough, against an opponent with two eyes. Or didn't Master Barathres teach you that? If he didn't, you should go back to Bossonia and get your fees back from him, at the point of a—"

Raihna's hand leaped at his cheek so swiftly he had no time to seize it. Instead he blocked the blow, then gripped Raihna's arm just above the elbow.

"Another ill-timed jest?"

"Let me go, curse you!"

"I've been cursed by a good many men and women, and I'm healthier than most of them."

Then he saw that tears were starting from her eyes. He released her and guided his horse to a safe distance, while she reined in and sat in silence, shaking and weeping silently.

At last she pushed her fists into her eyes, sighed, and faced Conan once more.

"Conan, forgive me. That was a cruel jest indeed, but you could not have known how much so. I am an exile from Bossonia. I have no home save where Illyana chooses to lead me. Illyana or someone worse.

"So I owe her silence about her secrets and perhaps a trifle more. Tell me, my Cimmerian friend. What would you say to a jest, that High Captain Khadjar was in the pay of Lord Houma?"

Conan felt the blood rush to his face. Raihna laughed, pointing at a fist he'd raised without realizing it.

"You see. I owe Illyana as much or more as you owe Khadjar. Let's follow an old Bossonian saying—'if you won't burn my haystacks, my cattle won't befoul your well.'Truce?"

Conan guided his horse close again and put an arm around her. She nestled into it for a moment.

"Truce."

From the ravine, the last frantic bellowings had died. So had the last of the herd of cattle. Even Master Eremius heard only the gobbling, tearing, and cracking as the Transformed dismembered the bodies. From time to time he heard growls and squeals as they quarreled over some particularly succulent piece.

He did not fear the quarrels would turn bloody. The Transformed were no disciplined army, but the elders among them had ways of keeping the peace. At times, Eremius suspected, those ways meant the disappearance of one or two of their number. A waste, but not a great one.

Today nothing of that nature would happen. The Transformed had a feast under their claws. They also had foreknowledge of a greater feast tonight, with human flesh to rend and human terror to savor.

Captain Nasro scrambled up to Eremius's perch and knelt.

"Master, the stream at the foot of the ravine grows foul. Blood and ordure make it unfit for drinking."

"It matters not at all to the Transformed. Or have you forgotten that?"

"I remember, Master." He swallowed, sweat breaking out on his face. "Yet—do you—I also remember —that our men, those not Transformed—they need clean water."

"Then let them go upstream from the ravine and drink there!" Eremius snarled. The force of his anger made his staff lift from the ground and whirl toward the captain's head. Eremius let the staff come so close that the man flinched, then made it tap him lightly on the cheek.

"Think, man. Would I have let your men go thirsty? I have left you and them alike enough wits to find food and water. Go use them, and leave me in peace!"

Nasro flinched again, bowed again, and retreated.

Alone save for his thoughts and the din of the Transformed feeding, Eremius sat down, staff across his knees. It was a pity he could not hope that Nasro and all his men would perish in tonight's battle among the villages. The villagers would hardly offer enough resistance.

Besides, he still needed Nasro and the rest of his witlings. Only when both Jewels were at his command could he amuse himself by disposing of them.

That promised to be a most agreeable day. So did another, the day he made the Transformed able to breed and breed true. Transformed and commanded by the powers of a single Jewel, they were barren. When Eremius held both Jewels, matters would be otherwise. Then he would also command a regular tribute of women to be Transformed and bear more such.

It was said that the children of those Transformed by both Jewels reached their full growth in a single year. Eremius would most assuredly put that to the proof at the earliest moment. If it was true, he would have one more irresistible gift to offer his allies.

Of course, with Illyana's aid or at least her Jewel he could have proved the matter and offered the gift ten years ago! That thought no longer ruled his mind, as the day of open battle and victory drew closer. It still lurked in his spirit, snarling like a surly watchdog and able to darken the brightest day.

"The stream's turned all bloody!"

"The demons have cursed it!"

"Who brought their wrath upon us?"

"Find him!"

At those last words Bora broke into a run. He wanted to reach the stream before the crowd decided he was the one they should find and turned into a mob searching for him.

The shouting swelled. Bora had never run so fast in his life, save when fleeing the mountain demons. He burst out of the village and plunged through the crowd. He was on the bank of the stream before anyone saw him coming.

There he stopped, looking down into water commonly as cool and clear as his sister Caraya's eyes. Now it was turning an evil, pustulant scarlet. Bits of nameless filth floated on the surface and an evil reek smote Bora's nostrils.

Around him the villagers were giving way. Did they fear him or was it only the stink of the stream? He laughed, then swallowed hard. He feared that if he began laughing now, he would not easily stop.

Holding his breath, he knelt and scooped up a bit of floating filth. Then he smiled.

"Now we know what became of Perek's cattle!" he shouted. "They must have fallen into some ravine upstream. Hard luck for Perek."

"Hard luck for us, too!" someone shouted. "Can we all drink from the wells, until the stream runs clear again?"

"What else is there to do?" Bora asked, shrugging.

This reasonable question made some nod. Others frowned. "What if the cattle died—in a way against nature?" one of these said. None dared say the word "demons," as if their name might call them. "Will the water ever run clean again?"

"If—anything against nature—had a hand in this, it will show in the water," Bora said. He had to take a deep breath before he knew he could say the next words in a steady voice. "I will step into the water. If I step out unharmed, we need fear no more than rotting cattle."

This speech drew both cheers and protests. Several arguments and at least one fight broke out between the two factions. Bora ignored both and began stripping off his clothes. If he did not do this quickly, he might well lose the courage to do it at all.

The water was chill as always, biting with sharp, angry teeth that began on his toes and ended at his chest. He would not sink his face and head in that filthy water.

Bora stayed in the stream until numbness blunted the water's teeth. By then the crowd was silent as the mist in the demons' valley. He stayed a trifle longer, until he began to lose feeling in his toes and fingers. Then he turned toward the bank.

He needed help to climb out, but enough villagers rushed forward to help a dozen men. Others had brought towels. They surrounded him, to chafe and rub until his skin turned from blue to pink and his teeth stopped chattering.

Caraya came, with a steaming posset cup and a look he had seldom seen on her face. Her tongue was no more gentle than usual, however. "Bora, that was a foolish thing to do! What would have become of us if the demons took you?"

"I didn't think there were any demons. But I could hardly ask anyone to believe me, unless I proved it. If I hadn't—what would have become of you if they thought I'd brought the demons and stoned me to death!"

"They wouldn't dare!" If her eyes had been bows, half the crowd would have dropped dead with arrows in them.

"Caraya, men in fear will dare anything, if it lets them strike back at that fear." It was one of Ivram's pieces of wisdom. Now seemed a good time to bring it forth.

Another charitable soul brought a bucket of hot water and a sponge. Bora sponged himself into a semblance of cleanliness, then pulled on his clothes. The crowd still surrounded him, many gaping as if he were a god come to earth.

Anger sharpened his voice.

"Is there no work that needs doing? If nothing else, we must bring water from Winterhome if our wells cannot give enough. Doubtless they will share if we ask. Not if we stand about gaping until the birds build nests in our mouths!"

Bora half-feared that he had finally said too much. Who was he, at sixteen, to order men old enough to be his grandfather?

Instead he saw nods, and heard men offering to walk to the other village with a message. He refused to decide who should go. He took one of the towels, dipped it into the stream, then wrung it out and tied it around his left arm.

"I will take this to Ivram," he shouted, raising the arm. "The demons were too weak to harm me, so there is little to fear. There may be much to learn, and Ivram will know how to learn it."

Bora hoped that was true. The priest was said to know many odd bits of arcane lore, without being truly a sorcerer. Even so, Ivram might not be able to answer the most urgent question.

How close were the demons? To send men out to seek them would be murder. To wait and let them come at a time of their own choosing would be folly. What else could be done? Bora did not know, but Ivram could at least help him hide this ignorance.

Also, Ivram and Maryam were the two people in the whole village to whom Bora could admit that he was frightened.

By mid-afternoon Conan judged it safe to leave the hills and press on to the next town. He would have felt safer pressing all the way to the garrison at Fort Zheman, but that would have meant riding by night.

Also, Dessa and Massouf were near the end of their strength.

"They might go farther if they hadn't spent so much time quarreling," Conan told Raihna. "I won't turn that young lady over my knee, but I'll pray Massouf does and soon. For all our sakes, not just his!"

"I much doubt he'll find it in himself to do that," Raihna said. "He sounds like a man who isn't quite sure now he wanted his dream to come true."

"If he doesn't know what he wants, then he and Dessa will be well-matched," Conan growled. "I'll even pay for their wedding, if they have no kin left. Anything, just so we don't have to carry those witlings into the mountains!"

Unmoved by Conan's opinion, the reunited lovers were still quarreling when the party rode into Haruk. They fell silent while Conan found rooms at an inn with stout walls, a back door, and good wine. Then their quarreling began again, when Illyana announced thatlthey would share a room to themselves.

"I won't!" Dessa said simply.

"I won't touch you, Dessa," Massouf said. He sounded genuinely contrite. "Don't be afraid."

"Afraid! Of you? A real man I'd fear, but—"

Glares from Illyana, Raihna, and Conan silenced her, but not soon enough. An angry flush crept up into Massouf's face and his voice shook as he spoke.

"I'm not man enough for you? What are you, Dessa? Did you find a trull's heart in—"

The slap Dessa aimed would have floored Massouf if Conan hadn't stepped between them. He held one hand over Dessa's mouth while he opened the door of her room with the other. Then he shifted his grip, to the collar and hem of her borrowed tunic, swung her back and forth a few times, and tossed her neatly on to the bed.

"Now, Massouf," Conan said with elaborate courtesy. "Would it be your pleasure to walk into the room? Or would you prefer to imitate a bird?"

Massouf cursed but walked. Conan kicked the couple's baggage in after them, then pulled the door shut and bolted it from the outside.

"Here," Illyana said. She held out a cup of wine. Conan emptied it without taking it from his lips.

"Bless you," he said, wiping his mouth. He stopped short of adding that she knew well what a man might need. Such jests clearly reached some old, deep wound. If he could give her no good memories, he could at least not prod the scabs and scars.

"I don't know if they'll have a peaceful night," Raihna said. "But I intend to." She put an arm around Conan's waist.

"If it's peace you want, Raihna, you may have to wait a while for it."

"Oh, I hope so. A long, long while." Her attempt to imitate a worshipful young girl was so ludicrous that even Illyana burst out laughing.

"If you're that hot, woman," Conan said, "then let's see what this inn has for dinner. Man or horse, you don't ride them far on an empty stomach!"

Eleven

SOMEWHERE NEARBY A woman was screaming. Pleasantly entangled with Raihna, Conan was slow to spare the woman a single thought. Even then, his thought was that Dessa and Massouf had finally come to blows. Dessa, in Conan's opinion, could well take care of herself without help from people who had more important matters at hand—

The screams grew louder. Raihna stiffened, but not in passion. She stared at the door.

"Woman—!" the Cimmerian muttered.

"No. That—it's Illyana. She is in pain or fears danger."

Raihna flung herself out of bed and dashed to the door. She stopped only to snatch up sword and dagger. Similarly clad, Conan followed.

In the hall, Dessa and Massouf stood before Illyana's door. Dessa was clad as Conan and Raihna, without the weapons. Massouf had a blanket wrapped around his waist. As Conan reached them, the screaming ceased.

"Don't just stand there!" Conan snarled.

"We tried the door," Massouf said. "It is bolted from within, or perhaps spell-bound." His voice was steady, although his eyes ran up and down Raihna.