Conan and the Mists of Doom Part 1

Roland Green.

Conan and the Mists of Doom.

Prologue.

The valley slashed into the flank of the Kezankian Mountains like a sword cut.

The entrance deceived the casual eye, being but a narrow cleft in a spur of Mount Goadel. The mist often swirling about the heights aided the deception, giving the cleft the air of a place uncanny and unwholesome, where things a sane man would shun might lurk in wait.

Often the wind rose, driving away the mist, but raising a howling as of demons and lost souls as it whipped around the rocks. The wind-cry likewise kept travelers from being too curious about the valley.

It had been many years since travelers had allowed themselves to be curious about the valley, or anything else in this part of the Kezankian range. It was far from any place that concerned civilized folk, and too plainly a good home for bandits, outlaws, and still more debased forms of humanity. There were even tales of tribes of ape-men, kin to those of the Himelian peaks in Vendhya, dwelling above the snow line.

The man who led the column of soldiers up the slope toward the cleft knew more than most of the truth about the valley. It had indeed been home to bandits and outlaws. Some of these now followed him, won to obedience-if not loyalty-by gold in one hand and a whip in the other. Others, he and his company had slain with their own hands. Still others had fled, to become bleaching bones when the vultures were done with them.

About ape-men, Captain Muhbaras knew little and cared less. If they did not trouble him, he would leave them in whatever peace their lofty homes might afford them. He personally doubted that any creature dwelling among eternal snow and ice could have the wits of a louse, but then he had grown to manhood among the gurgling wells and trees sagging with ripe fruit of a Khorajan n.o.bleman's estate.

Long-legged and unburdened save for a shirt of fine Vendhyan mail and an open-faced helm of Nemedian style, Muhbaras had reached the cleft well ahead of his column. Now he turned back to watch it mount the slope, and to count heads for straggling or desertion. Small fear of the latter, when all went in fear of the Lady of the Mists, who could see to the edge of the world, but there were always fools in any company.

One could hardly tell bandits from Khorajans or nomads; all wore the same robes and headdress, sand-hued or dirty white, with boots and belts of camel's hide and a curved sword and dagger thrust into the belts. Some among each folk carried bows and quivers, but a keen-eyed man would have quickly seen that the bows were unstrung and the quivers bound tightly shut with leather thongs.

No man approached the entrance to the Valley of the Mists with ready arrows or strung bow. Not without the Lady's consent, and thus far that consent had not been forthcoming.

What had been forthcoming were harsh punishments for those who flouted the Lady's will. Punishments so dire, indeed, that those who had suffered them might have gladly changed places with the captives in the middle of the column. Their death would have been no less unclean, under the Lady's magic, but it would have been swifter and far less painful.

There were ten of the captives, bound into a single file by stout thongs about their waists. Their hands and feet were free, which meant vigilance by their guards, as the Lady misliked pursuing escapers with her spells, lest this endanger her secrets. There was hardly any choice, however, as no man with hands bound could mount the slopes here. Nor could a band of this size carry many helpless burdens over the rocks and along the ravines.

Escapes were few enough in truth, thanks to the potion the Lady's apothecary doled out to each band of raiders. If one could get enough of it down a captive's gullet, the man, woman, or child would be as docile as a sheep for up to three days. Muhbaras had scented some familiar herbs in the potion, and others he could not name; he suspected that the real secret of the potion was not knowable by common men.

The captives were seven men, if you counted one youth barely old enough to show a beard, and three women. Two with grave wounds and one who had fought to the last against swallowing the potion were vultures' fodder, as well as a warning to anyone who would pursue the raiders. Muhbaras counted the captives twice, although there was no escape this far into the mountains for anyone who could neither fly like a bird nor sink into solid rock like a spirit. He made a gesture of aversion at that last thought; some of the tribes hereabouts commanded potent magic. It would not be well done to capture one of their shamans or the man's kin.

Then he turned toward the cleft in the rock, drew his sword (Nemedian work like his helm), and raised it hilt-first. He saw no one and heard nothing save the whisper of the wind on distant slopes, but he knew that keen eyes watched for still keener minds.

Crimson light darted from the cleft, striking a jewel in the sword's hilt. The jewel glowed like an oil lamp, but no oil lamp ever gave out such hues, not only a half-score different shades of crimson but hints of azure, emerald, amber- "We have returned," the captain said. "We have ten. In the service of the Lady, we ask blessing."

The light darted out again. This time the crimson glow danced along the ground until it drew a complete circle around the column. Muhbaras tried not to think how much it resembled a noose, ready to be drawn tight. He told himself that he and his men had survived this rite a score of times without so much as a singed hair.

Reason and memory were of small use against the dark fear of old magic, coiling through a man's guts and gnawing at his will like a rat at a corpse. The captain felt a cold sweat creep across his skin under the mail and padding.

"In the service of the Lady, the blessing is given," the voice said. The captain tried for the tenth time to find something in the voice by which he might recognize the speaker. It would be of little value if he did, save for proving that not all the Lady's secrets were impenetrable. The men behind him were looking at him, and he remembered that the next part of the rite was his.

"In the service of the Lady, we beg entrance to the Valley of the Mists."

The captain wondered, not quite idly, what might happen if he used some word less abject than "beg." So far he had lacked the courage to find out-as much for the sake of those who had followed him from Khoraja as for his own sake. He wondered if those who survived would receive their promised gold and estates, but doubting the word of Khoraja's rulers did not make him ready to throw away the lives of his men. He had held his duty as a captain near to his heart, long before he heard of the Lady of the Mists or laid eyes on the Kezankian Mountains.

"In the service of the Lady, entrance to the Valley of the Mists is granted."

He heard light footsteps, quickly lost in the grind and growl of stones shifting, which always sounded to him like the bowels of the mountains themselves rumbling. The stone-noise ended, the light of torches glowed from the cleft, and two figures stepped swiftly into view.

One was tall and dark, the other shorter and fair, and both were women. They wore silvered helmets, displaying on either side a golden ornament in the form of a scorpion's tail, brown leather corselets reinforced with iron plates, loose breeches in the Turanian style, of heavy silk in a green so dark it was almost black, and boots whose style the captain did not recognize.

Each had a sword and dagger, and each carried a Turanian recurved bow and quiver of well-made arrows. Their faces under the helmets and bodies under the armor were good to look at. The sure grace of their movements and the stillness in their eyes made it clear no man but a fool would hope for more, and fools would meet weapons the women knew well how to use.

Northern folk had tales of shield-maidens, daughters of the G.o.ds, who roamed the earth seeking the souls of dead warriors, or so the captain had heard. He had thought them barbarians' fancies once; now he was not so sure. All of the Lady's Maidens had the same look, of being able to see into a man's soul and judge him.

It was that look, as much as their weapons and armor, that had kept the Maidens untouched. That, and knowing that what the Lady had done to disobedient archers would be as a child's tantrum to what she would do in defense of her Maidens.

"Any children?" the dark Maiden said.

"None."

"As well. Strong spirits are needed to feed the Mist."

"The strongest spirit, we freed back near the village. We could not force the potion down him without risking hurt to our people, and pursuit seemed closer than usual."

Why was he explaining himself to this madwoman, servant of a greater madwoman?

Perhaps because he had seen her on guard more often than any other, and she looked less grim than most. The fair one, now-a man's hand would freeze on touching her, long before his manhood was anywhere near her.

'This is not well."

"It did not seem my decision, to sacrifice the Lady's servants."

"That is wisdom."

They continued to speak as the raiders filed past. Some of the prisoners had enough awareness to open their eyes and look about them, but the point of a sword in the back was enough to discourage laggards. At last the tail of the column vanished among the rocks, and Muhbaras was alone on the mountainside with the Maidens. "You are well, I trust?" the fair one said. Not for the first time, she made a question about the captain's health sound like a death sentence.

"I am well, and fit to come within," he replied, returning to ritual phrases.

Which I would not do if I did not think your mistress needed my men more than they need her!

One.

The desert lay north of Zamboula, south of Khauran, west of the mighty realm of Turan, now burgeoning in its strength under the lash of its bold new King Yezdigerd. It belonged to none of these.

Indeed, the land belonged to no one. Even names on it were few, and those mostly oases. The nomads were divided among a score of tribes, seldom at peace with one another; each tribe had its own names for the wadis, the depressions, the dunes.

The harsh sky and its blazing sun might have leached all the color from the land. The sand lay pale ochre and umber, the rocks seemed baked white as bones, and even the spa.r.s.e vegetation was pallid and dusty.

Well off to the north, dust trails crept above the horizon. Still farther, barely visible, rose patches of deeper green. Together they told of caravan routes and cultivated lands. Only in the crystalline air of the desert would they have been visible at all, for they were a good day's ride on a stout horse.

Nearer at hand, a man standing on a well-placed dune might have seen another dust cloud rising to the sky. Before long, he would have seen the dark shapes of more than a dozen riders at the base of the cloud, growing even as he watched. Remaining beyond bowshot, he would have taken them for a band of nomad warriors.

Their garb was certainly that of the nomads, or of any man who braves a forge-hot desert journey-loose, flowing robes from crown to toe. All were well armed, mostly with long, curved swords or bows.

Closer up, a man who knew the tribes of the East might have doubted that these men were native to the desert. One saw silver on the hilts of some weapons, tattoos on bronzed cheeks, and subtle differences in the tooled leather of the saddles and bridles. Yet most of the men and their mounts could have ridden into a nomad camp without drawing a second glance.

All except one, the leader. Few deserts ever sp.a.w.ned a man so gigantic, who needed a horse larger than any nomad ever bestrode to carry him even at a trot.

Nor did those ice-blue eyes first open under any desert sun, and the blade that rode at the man's hip was as straight as his broad back.

Conan of Cimmeria was riding for Koth, with fourteen loyal Afghulis sworn to see him safely to that destination. Perhaps also they had hopes of plucking loot from the war in Koth.

The man on the dune might have stood watching until not only Conan but the rearmost of the riders was out of sight. Had he done so, however, he would shortly have seen a new dust cloud sprout on the horizon, moving swiftly on the trail of Conan's band. The Cimmerian and his Afghulis were not alone in the desert.

In the forefront of the band, Conan was not the first to see the riders behind.

That modest honor went to a rider named Farad, of the Batari tribe. He spurred his mount up beside the Cimmerian's and shouted into the northerner's ear.

"We are followed. Many more than we are, from the dust they make." Conan turned to look eastward. Farad's eyes were keen and his judgment sound.

The riders behind had to be at least fifty, though probably not more than a hundred-which hardly mattered, as even fifty was four times the strength of Conan's band.

Nor did it matter much who they were, unless by some improbable chance they were a caravan gone astray or Zamboulans. Neither was likely to be found in this stretch of desert; more likely by far were nomads or Turanians, and neither would meet Conan and his men as friends.

In some nomad dialects the word "stranger" was also the word for "enemy." Among every nomad tribe, anyone who had wealth to take and no kin to avenge their death was fair game. The horses and weapons of Conan's band would be enough to sign their death warrant with any nomads numerous enough to take them, to say nothing of what Conan bore in a small pouch next to his skin.

That small sack of jewels was all his profit from two years among the Afghulis.

That and a whole skin, which he supposed was more than many kept who went among the Afghulis in their native mountains.

Binding the scattered, brawling tribes of the Afghulis into a single host had at first seemed like a good idea. Conan knew his own skill and the prowess of the Afghuli warriors, likewise the weaknesses of every neighboring realm. A united Afghuli people could take their pick.

The Afghulis did not seem to care overmuch for this bright vision. If it meant fighting beside a man whose great-grandfather had insulted theirs, they would rather fight the man (or perhaps the towering foreigner who suggested that they forgive the insult).

It was Conan's luck, not to mention ready blade and stout thews, that kept his hide intact. With little but what he had on his person and no friends but those who owed him blood-debts, he had fled the mountains. Fighting their way through bandits and bears alike, they came to hear rumors of war in Koth.

Westward they rode, the Afghulis as eager as Conan to try their hand at winning loot and glory from the troubles of Koth. They had to ride well clear of the borders of Turan, however, for in that realm there was a price on Conan's head.

Under King Yildiz's mild reign, few Turanians would have cared to gamble their lives on taking Conan's. Yezdigerd was not his father, and knew how to use both fear and greed to make men bold, even foolhardy.

Conan looked eastward again. He thought he saw a second dust cloud on the horizon, but after a mo-ment knew it was only a dust devil, a creature of the wind. But the first cloud had grown larger, and now he thought he saw the glint of sunlight on steel.

The nomads wore no armor. In this land, armored riders were most likely Turanians. Conan looked westward, studying the ground with a practiced eye. He had fought in every kind of land from glacier to jungle, and knew what each offered to a hunted band.

To the west, the desert rolled away under the sun, offering little but sand and scrub. Anywhere in that emptiness, Conan's band would stand out like a pea on a platter. Once in bowshot, the enemy would have easy prey, unless night came-and it was only early afternoon.

To the north, however, a sprawling gray ma.s.s thrust its rocky head above the sand. Any who reached this ridge might lurk in its cracks and crevices until nightfall dimmed the enemy's sight, then slip away. At worst, it offered shelter for archery and ambushes, likewise high ground for a last stand if the odds against escape grew too long. Conan grinned at the prospect of giving King Yezdigerd a few more widows'

pensions to pay. This was the kind of fight that made his blood sing and that had made his name in all Hyborian lands and more than a few others. Long odds, a need for both cunning and strength, and stout brothers-in-arms to tell the tales afterward or keep him company in death if that was his fate.

No one worthy of the name of warrior could complain about the battle Conan faced.

His only remaining problem was to be sure that the battle would be on his chosen ground, not that of the Turanians. A good deal of open desert lay between Conan's men and the ridge, bare of cover but likely full of holes and cracks that could catch a horse's leg and doom its rider.

Conan had read a few books on the art of war, and thought most of them tried to make into wizardry something that was for the most part common sense. In none of them had he found one maxim he knew to be true: The horse that has never stumbled before will stumble when you are riding for your life.

He waved toward the ridge, while turning in the saddle to shout at the Afghulis.

"We'll perch there until nightfall. Archers, to the rear, but I'll gut the man who wastes arrows." The Afghulis were mostly not the finished horse-archers of Turan, among the best in the world; but their pursuers would make a large target.

The archers reined in a trifle, the rest dug in spurs, and dust swirled around Conan's band as it re-formed for its last ride. Dust also swirled, higher and thicker than before, to their rear. Conan cast a final look behind him, thought he recognized Turanian banners, then put his head down and his heels in to ride for his life.

In a bare rock chamber in the wall of the Valley of the Mists, a woman sat cross-legged and alone on a bearskin thrown across a Turanian rug. Before her stood a tall wine cup of gilded bronze, with four handles and a broad base displaying archaic, even ancient runes known only among sorcerers and talked of in whispers even among them.

The Lady was as bare as the chamber, save for a necklace, bracelets, and coronet of fresh mountain creeper. A Maiden had plucked it in the night and brought it to the chamber before dawn, where it had remained in cool shadows. It was still so fresh that the last drops of dew trickled from the crinkled gray-green leaves down between the Lady's b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

The Lady of the Mists-she did not choose to remember any other name-reached under the bearskin and drew out a heavy disk of age-blackened bronze. One could barely make out under the patina of centuries the sigil of Kull of Atlantis.

The Lady knew not whether some potent Atlantean spell still lurked in the bronze. She only knew that nothing else that had come into her hands so readily let her work her own.

That was as well. Workers in magic did best and lived longest (if they cared for that, as the Lady did) if they worked most with the magic they knew and commanded-as well as any mortal could command power from the realms of night.

She shifted her position with the languid grace of a cat half-roused from sleep, until she could reach the cup. She set the bronze disk atop the cup, so that it rested a hairsbreadth below the rim, completely covering the cup.

The movement sent more dew trickling between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. No living man would have gazed on those b.r.e.a.s.t.s unstirred, nor did the rest of the Lady's form repel the eye any more than her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She could have filled her bed more readily than most women, had she sought that-or had her eyes been other than they were.

They were of human size and shape, but of a golden hue seen in no race of men.

She also had the vertical pupils of a cat, and these were a nightmare black against the yellow.

Any man seeing the Lady's form would have judged her human, and judged truly.

Then, coming closer, a glimpse of her eyes would have changed his mind and likely sent him fleeing, faster than anything but the Lady's laughter could pursue. Or, if she took offense, the Lady's magic.

The Lady pressed a finger to the cup, moving it to see if its bronze seal was well in place. No rattle greeted her. She smiled, and her eyes narrowed, like those of a cat looking, as they so often do, into a world beyond human knowledge.

Then she rested both hands lightly on the bronze and began to sing. The cup quivered at first, then steadied, but around cup and Lady alike a crimson light began to spread.

Conan was now as careful not to look to his rear as any Aquilonian knight leading a charge. He did not do it for the knight's reasons of not wishing to show doubt that those sworn to him would follow steadfastedly in his wake.