Conan and the Emerald Lotus Part 19

The Lady Zelandra's hair blew back from her straining face. Her eyes stretched wide, lit up from within by a weird crimson light. A tortured stream of strange words poured from her lips as she flung her arms out as though to embrace the oncoming bandits.

Every man in the gorge stopped moving. They stared in horror at the sorceress as a fiery illumination gathered and seethed about her outstretched hands. Halfway down the slope, T'Cura turned to run.

"Heeyah Vramgoth Dew!" screamed Zelandra, her voice rising to a wail of supernatural intensity. "Aie Vramgoth Cthugua!"

A towering sheet of red-orange flame rose Up before her, filling the gorge from wall to wall, obscuring Zelandra and her comrades from the bandits. For an instant it stood still, raging like the blaze at the heart of a volcano; then it rolled down the canyon toward Neb-Khot's terror-stricken band. Men turned to flee and were caught in the roaring inferno like insects in a brush fire. Screams of fearful agony were half heard above the flame-wall's thunder.

Neb-Khot was astride his horse the moment that Zelandra began her chant. He tried to spur away, but his horse shied, its hooves slipping on the loose stone of the gorge's floor. The beast fell, sending the Stygian chieftain flying from its back to slide gracelessly down the slope. He dragged himself to his feet, twisting an ankle in the gravel, and ran as if h.e.l.l were at his heels.

Conan stood on the boulder's crest, watching the flame-wall move away.

It rolled swiftly toward the mouth of the gorge, expanding and contracting to fill the defile. When it reached the end of the little canyon, it faded swiftly from view. The fearsome, ear-filling roar dwindled away to silence. The barbarian saw that three bandits had escaped the gorge and now rode intently away from the b.u.t.te. Two of the men shared a single mount. None turned to look behind them.

Six brigands lay dead on the floor of the canyon. Their bodies were twisted and contorted as though they had died in terrible pain. There was not a mark upon any of them.

Conan clenched his jaw, feeling the barbarian's instinctive fear of the supernatural welling up in him even as his battle-hardened sensibilities rebelled at the cruel power of Zelandra's sorcery. He glanced down to where the sorceress had stood at the base of the boulder and saw that she now sat cross-legged in the dust, her head in her hands. As he looked on, Heng Shih approached Zelandra and knelt at her side, bending his head to hers.

The Cimmerian lowered himself to the boulder's edge and dropped over it, landing lightly beside the sprawled corpse of the brigand he had broken his sword in slaying. The man still clutched a scimitar. Conan took the weapon from his stiffening fingers and the leather scabbard from his b.l.o.o.d.y belt. The scimitar was of mediocre workmanship, yet its design was agreeable enough. The blade was curved, but not so much as to make it impractical for thrusting. It was not a broadsword, but it would have to serve.

When he turned, Zelandra was standing again, embraced by Neesa. Heng Shih approached him with a wide grin, his silken kimono bright and incongruously festive in the sun. The Khitan's hands went through a quick sequence of motions, ending by seizing Conan by the upper arms and giving him a vigorous shake. The Cimmerian pulled free of the smiling Knit an.

"He gives you thanks for saving our lives," said Neesa. The Cimmerian grunted in embarra.s.sment, looking off down the gorge. Heng Shih slapped him on the shoulder and turned back to Zelandra, who stood leaning weakly against the boulder. Her posture spoke of enormous weariness.

The Khitan took her hand, and together they walked around the boulder to where the camels waited.

Neesa came to the barbarian where he stood affixing the looted sword and scabbard to his belt.

"I shouldn't have killed that man, should I?" she said. Her dark eyes sought his. "If you had time to bargain, perhaps-"

"h.e.l.l," grinned Conan, suddenly glad to be alive. "They had no intention of letting us go. You heard those dogs howl when they caught a glimpse of you. You don't think that I'd have traded you for safe pa.s.sage, do you?"

"No," she said, and lifted her lips to his.

Chapter Twenty-Three.

The riders allowed their horses, weary and lathered with foam, to stop and rest at the Caravan Road. Neb-Khot lowered himself awkwardly from the mount he shared with T'Cura, lit upon his twisted ankle and swore savagely.

"Yog and Erlik! That was a close thing, brothers."

T'Cura eased off his horse and stood holding the reins while the third survivor remained mounted. The third was one of the archers, his bow now in place over his right shoulder. He was a young Shemite, his shock of black hair in sharp contrast to the pale flesh of his face.

"Telmesh was right," he panted, wiping his brow with a dirty sleeve.

"They weren't human. Did you see the black-haired one knock my shaft from the air?"

"Be still, Nath," groaned Neb-Khot. He gave in to the pain in his ankle and sat down heavily on the hot, hard-packed earth of the Caravan Road.

The sun, just past its median, blazed down. It was still early afternoon. The Stygian chieftain marveled that the ill-fated pursuit of the travelers and the destruction of his band had taken so little time.

"I need a horse," he declared to no one in particular.

T'Cura was drinking noisily from a waterskin, still gripping the reins of his mount with one hand. He lowered the skin and studied his chieftain in a bemused fashion. The archer, Nath, shifted nervously in his saddle, looking back out across the shimmering expanse of the desert.

"The horses scattered, Neb-Khot," said Nath. "We'll never find one for you now."

"It's a long way to Sibu's oasis. And farther still to Bel-Phar,"

growled T'Cura.

"Ishtar." Neb-Khot rubbed his wounded ankle gingerly. "Give some of that water to your horse, T'Cura. The beast will need it to carry us both back to Sibu's."

The Darfari said nothing. He put the waterskin to his lips and took a long, deliberate pull. Lowering it, he looked upon Neb-Khot and bared his filed teeth in a cold and mirthless smile. Then he shoved the waterskin into a saddlebag with a single contemptuous motion.

Nath's gaze moved from T'Cura to his chieftain and back again, growing ever more apprehensive. Neb-Khot noticed none of this. His fingers probed his wounded ankle while his mind dwelt on this sudden reversal of fortune. He looked up to see that the Darfari had remounted his horse and was now stroking the polished blade of his unsheathed scimitar. For the first time it occurred to Neb-Khot that his luck might have deserted him completely.

"Look!" cried Nath, his voice breaking. "A rider!"

Neb-Khot twisted around, coming to his knees on the hard road. It was true. A single horseman had come into view on the road along the far flank of the ridge. His form rippled liquidly in the haze of heat, a small black mark on the ruddy, sun-blasted landscape; but it was clear that he rode the Caravan Road alone.

"Hah," grinned Neb-Khot, getting to his feet. "The G.o.ds haven't forgotten me after all. T'Cura, bring me that fool's horse and I'll give you fifty pieces of gold."

The Darfari eyed his leader with a look of amused disbelief writ upon his dark features. Then he shook his head and spat in the dust.

"Julian must love you, Neb-Khot," he said, and spurred his horse forward, toward the approaching horseman.

The Stygian chieftain laid a hand on the lathered neck of Nath's mount as they watched T'Cura rapidly close on the lone rider.

"Should I-" began the archer.

"No," said Neb-Khot firmly. "Stay here with me and make ready an arrow." Nath did as he was told, setting a shaft to string.

As they watched, T'Cura confronted the horseman, flourishing his sword threateningly in the brilliant sunlight. The traveler's mount seemed very weary, its head hanging, but it kept plodding toward them even as T'Cura accosted its rider. The Darfari's voice rang commandingly, the words indistinct and distant but unmistakable in intent. The horseman, wrapped in a voluminous caftan, did nothing, and his mount continued unperturbed in its slow, steady gait.

Neb-Khot licked dry lips. Was the man mad?

With a furious cry, T'Cura thrust his blade at the traveler's breast.

What happened next occurred with such speed that neither Nath nor Neb-Khot could immediately grasp it. The rider's left hand lashed out, literally slapping aside T'Cura's killing thrust, and then shot out to seize the Darfari by the throat. T'Cura's blade fell to the road and his horse shied away, pulling from beneath its rider and leaving him dangling at the end of an arm as rigid as the bar of a gallows.

"Mitra save us," gasped Nath.

Impossibly, the rider held T'Cura out at arm's length, kicking, and then gave him a powerful shake. The Darfari's thrashing limbs went abruptly lax, and he was released. He fell in a limp heap on the road as the horseman continued toward Neb-Khot and Nath at the same deliberate pace.

"Oh, Mitra! Mitra!" cried Nath hysterically.

"Be still!" shouted Neb-Khot, slapping the mounted man's leg. "Shoot the dog! Loose, d.a.m.n it!"

The archer shook with fear, but drew and released with ease born of years' practice. The arrow flew true, slapping into the center of the rider's breast. The man lurched in his saddle with the impact, but stayed mounted. His horse maintained its leisurely gait.

"Excellent," said Neb-Khot. "Now again!"