Conan and the Mists of Doom Part 9

Had Danar's leap been a spell to turn all who saw it into stone, there could not have been more silence or less movement on the balcony. Muhbaras alone contained himself out of fear. The rest seemed unable to believe that what their eyes had seen was really what had happened.

To suspect one's eyes of so misleading one would unsettle anyone, Muhbaras suspected. At least he had no doubts-and indeed, he was already composing the tribute to Danar he would send to the soldier's kin, if he had any and if Muhbaras himself lived to set pen to parchment again- The Maidens ceased to be statues. So did the Lady of the Mists. With hands raised, she advanced on the eight Maidens standing about the staff. A crimson nimbus sprang into existence around her right hand; a fainter golden light seemed to drip like water from her left hand.

The two colors cascaded down to the stone, splashed upward like water, and merged. They formed a sphere the size of a large melon, mostly crimson, shot with gold, and throwing off sparks. The sphere began to rotate-as it seemed to Muhbaras, in three different directions as once.

He would have called that impossible-except that since he came to the Valley of the Mists, Muhbaras had purged that word from his lips. It could only make one apt to be surprised-and the Lady and her Maidens held enough surprises for a soldier who kept his wits.

The sphere now floated upward, still spinning, with sparks of both colors cascading down so thickly that one could not see anyone through it. It rose higher and seemed to be moving toward the ring of Maidens.

It darted forward, until it was over the place where Danar had leapt.

Then Muhbaras clapped his hands over his ears, and before he squeezed his eyes shut, saw others doing the same. All seemed to be hearing the scream of one being flayed alive, a scream that told all who heard that it would go on until the end of time and perhaps beyond it until the G.o.ds themselves brought an end to it- He kept his feet, and so did most of the Maidens. Some of them staggered, however, and a handful went to their knees.

Only the Lady of the Mists stood unaffected, her hands still raised, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s rising and falling a trifle more than usual under the robe as if she was breathing hard. Her eyes contrived to both glow and be utterly blank at the same time, while her lips were even paler than usual. Then she gripped the staff with both hands, and it came free of the rock as easily as a weed from sodden ground. She tossed it with one hand and caught it with the other, whirled it, and seemed almost ready to break into a dance.

Dancing was the last thing Muhbaras felt like doing. His highest hope was that his legs and stomach would not betray him until he was safely beyond the Gate of the valley.

He had not believed that the Lady could conjure more horrors. The next moment proved him wrong. Danar, or at least a human figure more like him than not, floated up from the valley. It was as though an invisible hand had caught him before he found the merciful death he sought, and raised him to be prey to the Lady's torments.

For very surely the screams came from the human figure held there in the air before Muhbaras's horror-struck eyes.

Nine.

Conan reined in his urge to rush upslope as he would have reined in a pair of fractious chariot horses. Haste on broken ground leads more often to falls than to safe arrival, even for a surefooted hillman.

It also draws an enemy's attention, which Conan wished to avoid as long as possible. His comrades below lacked the numbers to force the enemy's archers to keep their heads down or even to spoil their shooting, if they chose to rejoin the fray.

So Conan moved with the stealth of a leopard, finding cover in cracks and hiding in pools of shadow that a watcher would have thought too small for a man his size. He also moved with the silence of a cobra, testing each handhold and footrest before putting weight on it. Little dust rose to mark his pa.s.sage, and only the smallest pebbles rolled silently downhill.

As he climbed, the rocks grew smaller but the ground grew otherwise more rugged.

At times the only route that offered concealment also required him to call on his mountaineering skills. Fortunately these were fresh in his memory, as much of Afghulistan reared itself up into slopes that challenged even its own goat-footed tribesfolk or even Cimmerians.

Conan finished climbing a short rock chimney with his feet against one side and his back against another. The ground at the upper end offered just enough hiding places to let him stop, catch his breath, spit dust from his mouth (although he still did not care to have his teeth touch one another), and listen to the progress of the battle.

Or rather, listen for the progress of the battle, without hearing it. Both above and below, the enemy seemed to have sat down to wait, not even hurling the occasional arrow or slingstone at a venture into the rocks where Conan's band lay hidden. Conan listened for war cries and curses, but heard only coughs and sneezes, and beyond that the crack of rocks breaking in the heat, the sigh of the wind, and distant birdcalls from high above.

Of course, such a silence had in Conan's experience also meant the enemy slipping into his comrades' position and cutting their throats. But he did not believe that the Turanian had yet been born who could do that to one Afghuli tribesman, let alone half a dozen-unless he was of Afghuli blood himself...

A sound from above cut short the Cimmerian's brief speculations. It was the sound of a man crawling, trying to be silent but having rather less than complete success at it.

Then other sounds joined the first one. Somebody was calling out, trying to be heard close by but not at any great distance. The call abruptly cut off, and Conan heard what sounded remarkably like a struggle. Meanwhile, the crawling man was drawing closer. Conan judged that the man would be close enough to spit on if he continued downhill for as long as it might take to empty a mug of good ale.

Then from above someone cried out in rage, someone else in agony. Neither seemed concerned about being overheard at a distance; indeed both shouted loud enough to be heard in Aghrapur. A frantic scrabbling told of the crawling man increasing his pace.

Then a bearded, wild-eyed head peered over a rock just beyond Conan's reach.

Instantly shouts rose from all around the rim, and the Cimmerian heard the whistle of arrows. Whether this man was friend or foe, Conan judged that he must know something that it would be well to learn. Turned into a pincushion by archers, he would die without speaking.

Conan lunged out of cover and grabbed a handful of greasy black hair with one hand, the neck of a patched and weather-faded robe with the other. Then he heaved backward. The man flew over the Cimmerian's head, screaming in panic as he saw himself about to plunge headfirst down the chimney.

He did not do so, because Conan twisted with the agility of an eel, shifting his grip as he did so. His hands closed around the man's ankles. But he was off balance for a moment-the moment in which all the weight of the man came on his wrists.

Conan dug in his feet, but an arrow creased the back of his knees. The sudden sting made him start, and that broke the grip of his toes. At the same moment the man squalled as if he were being impaled, which drew more arrows, and struggled wildly.

The Cimmerian felt himself sliding. Both his own honor and the need to keep the prisoner alive barred him from just letting go. Instead he tried to turn the slide into a leap, but he had no time. He was still turning, trying to get his feet under him to land softly, when he slid over the edge of the chimney and plunged down.

The Lady of the Mists let out a screech like a mating wildcat. The sphere of fire instantly swelled to three times its previous size and leaped toward Danar's suspended form.

Colors that Muhbaras would not have believed possible in h.e.l.l blazed in the Lady's eyes. They were mirrored in the sphere. It lost its spherical shape and licked out now more like the tongue of an immense serpent.

Its flame-shot core drove between two Maidens, so close that its fringes touched them. Each fell backward as if kicked by a horse, sprawling on the stone with clatters of armor. Some of their comrades hesitated, but others sprang forward to drag them to safety.

Muhbaras gave scant attention to what was happening on the platform. Instead he stared at what was happening to Danar. He hung in midair like a soap bubble as a web of fire wove itself around him, forming now obscene figures, now gouts of flame in sap-phire and emerald hues, at once dazzling and unwholesome.

Each time the Lady of the Mists raised her hands, the web grew tighter. Each time Muhbaras caught a glimpse of Danar, he bore more signs of torment. His mouth was open in a soundless scream and his back arched until his spine had to be ready to snap.

Then the fire closed around what had been a living man, but his being gone from sight did not mean the end of the torment. Instead the Lady allowed Danar's scream out of the fire-and Muhbaras had never heard a viler sound in all his years of warfare.

Then Muhbaras shut his ears and strode forward with his sword in one hand and his dagger in the other. Before anyone, Lady or Maiden, could move spell or steel to halt him, he tossed the dagger, caught it by the point, then flung it into the sphere of fire.

It was long range for anyone who had not learned the art of the throwing knife at ten and won prizes in the bazaar at twelve (and been beaten by his father for dealing with such lowborn folk). Also, Muhbaras had spent little time at practice of late.

His hand and eye still marched together. The dagger vanished into the fire. As it did, Muhbaras saw the Lady turn toward him-and raised his sword until its point thrust into the tongue of fire streaming from the Lady.

Mitra be my witness and guard my men, I cannot do otherwise.

Good fortune was with the Cimmerian and his prisoner in their fall. They landed on sand, with the prisoner uppermost, and Conan's ribs were sheathed in iron-hard muscle. He also had skill in jumping and falling that a carnival tumbler might have envied.

The fall still knocked the breath out of him, and he was slow to rise.

Fortunately his captive was as breathless from fear as the Cimmerian was from the fall. The man only attempted his escape after Conan was fit to prevent it, with a large hand clamped firmly around the handiest ankle. The man cursed and opened his mouth to scream, then appeared to see Conan clearly for the first time. His mouth stayed open, until he croaked words that sounded like: "You-no-Girumgi man?"

The tongue was Turanian, but such a thick dialect that Conan was not sure what was being said.

"I am not Girumgi," Conan said, in Turanian, as if he were speaking to a child.

"I mean you no harm, nor do any of my friends. Come with me."

The words seemed to escape the man's understanding, but the tone and the gestures carried enough meaning. Also, the man was short and lean even for a desert tribesman. The Cimmerian could have carried a man of that size under each arm, and the man seemed to prefer using his own feet to such a fate.

They made a good pace back to shelter. The enemy above seemed to be wholly lost in their shouting contest. Conan prefered to rejoin his comrades before the shouting turned back to shooting. As for the men below, the ground was against them, but numbers were for them. Their not coming on was another mystery, and two mysteries on the same battlefield were two more than the Cimmerian enjoyed facing.

Battles were confusing enough when everybody did what he was supposed to. When he did not, only a G.o.d could see some pattern in the chaos of a battle.

If he had owed nothing to comrades, the Cimmerian would have been using the enemy's confusion to show them all a clean pair of heels. When others' lives hung on your continued presence, however- Farad was the first to greet Conan, and motioned quickly to a low cave whose mouth had been dug free while Conan was garnering the prisoner. It was too shallow to be much of a last refuge, and held no water-not that the battle was likely to exhaust even the single water bag apiece Conan's band was carrying.

"No attacks?" the Cimmerian said.

Farad looked at the sky. "Would we be here if there had been? And who is this aged boy?"

Again the man understood Farad's tone rather than his Afghuli words, and drew a dagger. Conan promptly slapped it out of his hand, then retrieved it and thrust it into his own belt.

"You are lucky to be alive," he said. "I will keep this knife until you have told us what is happening uphill. Why do you fear the Girumgi?"

The man began babbling a hasty explanation, of which Conan understood possibly two words out of three. He found more sense in the man's tale when he remembered that the Girumgi were one of the more powerful of the desert tribes.

Before the man had finished his explanation, Conan heard the shouting atop the hill die away. As it did, he thought he also heard Turanian war horns, but so far away that it was impossible to tell whether it was a trick of the desert wind moaning around the rocks.

Conan signaled with his hand to Farad: Make ready for an attack. Farad nodded and undid his belt, to bind the prisoner's hands. The man's eyes rolled up until only the whites showed.

Conan glared. "He will cut your throat if you do not submit, and I will not stop him."

"No-I fight-I friend you-I fight Girumgi-" he said, with frantic gestures uphill and toward the right.

That told Conan that the Girumgi had been pressing the attack more vigorously, but not enough else to dispel the mystery. He nodded to Farad, who looped the thong around the man's wrists and started to pull it tight.

Then demons seemed to break loose on the hill above. Fifty men at least were screaming, in defiance, terror, or mortal agony. Above the screaming rose unmistakable Turanian war horns, this time not far away at all. Even better, some of the war cries were also Turanian.

Conan looked at the prisoner, who had fainted. Then he looked at Farad, who returned a "Do you take me for an oracle?" expression.

The Cimmerian shifted to the nearest position that might allow him to see what was going on uphill, or tell where he could send an arrow without skewering a friend!

Muhbaras did not expect another life in another world, for he had served too many bad masters for far too long. He also did not expect anyone to speak well of the manner of his death, or compose about it a poem that would be sung in the halls of Khorajan n.o.bles for centuries or even moons to come. He did expect that his death would make amends to Danar's spirit, if it did not end his torment.

What Muhbaras did not know about sorcery and witchcraft would fill several long and closely written scrolls. He did know, however, that the presence of cold iron, such as a sword blade, could hinder many spells.

All this whirled through Muhbaras's thoughts in the heartbeat between his lifting the sword and its entering the fire. Then he staggered backward as the tongue of fire jerked upward, s.n.a.t.c.hing the sword from his hand so violently that the s.h.a.green grip left his palm b.l.o.o.d.y.

Like a mortally stricken serpent, the tongue of fire writhed wildly in the air.

The Lady of the Mists braced her legs and clutched at her end of it like a drowning man clutching at a rope. Muhbaras heard her chanting, then screaming, loud enough to be heard over Danar's agony, but was too surprised at still being alive to look closely at the Lady's face.

Too surprised, and also too fearful that if she took serious notice of him, his death would be next and in a form that made Danar's look mild. He had not fallen dead the moment his sword pierced the fire. He judged this to mean that something far worse awaited him.

Then Danar's cry ended. The fire around him vanished, and only gray ash remained, drifting down into the valley on the evening breeze, past life, past pain, past fear.

The Lady chanted on, and the tongue of fire now lashed about like the tail of an immense cat. Everyone gave it ample room, except the Lady who commanded it and Muhbaras. He stood as if his feet had turned to stone and joined with the balcony. Indeed, he had to look down to be sure that this had not happened.

He was alive, but knew this could not last long. Since he was a dead man who yet stood, he would not fling aside the dignity of this last moment by seeking to run.

Perhaps his death would not pa.s.s unnoticed-at least among the Maidens. Some of them had the souls of women rather than witches. Danar had proved that. They might not be such ready tools for their mad mistress with the example of Muhbaras's death in front of them.

Suddenly the tongue of fire shrank from the height of a tree to the height of a man in a single instant. Then it shrank further, into a sphere no larger than an apple, and fell to the stone. As it struck, it vanished-but smoke rose where it struck, and Muhbaras saw stone bubble and fume as it ran liquid.

They stood, sorceress and mercenary, staring at one another across a patch of cooling lava no wider than a footstool but seemingly as wide as the valley itself for all that either could cross it. The silence around them seemed as solid as bronze or stone, encasing their limbs so firmly that the mere thought of movement seemed futile.

Only the rise and fall of the Lady's b.r.e.a.s.t.s told Muhbaras that she yet lived.

He could not have told why he knew that he lived, yet he did-and as the moments flowed one into another, he began to wonder if he might go on living.

Do not hope. Death that s.n.a.t.c.hes away hope is the harshest.

That was an old lesson, in books any boy born to be a soldier knew almost as soon as he could mount a horse. Muhbaras clung to it, but he also clung to the thought that he had done something the Lady of the Mists could not have expected, and did not know what to make of it.

As long as she doubted, Muhbaras might live.

It did not occur to him to try to escape while the Lady stood bemused and doubting, perhaps for the first time since she bent the valley to her will. Had he been able to form the reason for this completely, it would have been that any movement by him would break this fragile truce, and make the Lady lash out wildly.

His own death was certain, a death he had faced to end Danar's torment. He would not bring death to the Maidens if he could contrive otherwise.

A sound broke the silence-the clang of steel on stone. Muhbaras still did not move. He did not need to. Without so much as moving his eyes, he saw his sword lying on the stone between him and the Lady.

He had expected the sword to be a blackened, twisted relic of itself. Instead it gleamed as if the finest armorer in the world had lavished entire days bringing out the l.u.s.ter in the steel. Jewels winked in the hilt where only a few disks of silver had shone before-but they did not make the weapon useless.

"Take it up," the Lady said. At least that was what Muhbaras thought he heard, although he could not have sworn the words were not coming from the air. He did know, however, that it would be ill done to make the Lady repeat herself.

He squatted, and without taking his eyes from the Lady's face, lifted his sword.

It felt lighter than before, yet as well balanced as ever.

One heard about such swords, in old tales of heroes who had died when the waves still rolled over the fresh grave of Atlantis. One did not imagine seeing one's own blade transformed into such a weapon.

"Cut off a lock of your hair with your blade, honored captain," the Lady said.

This time Muhbaras knew that it was she who spoke. He also knew that disobeying was impossible. Never mind the possible consequences-disobeying was a thought that did not enter his mind.

He had cut a lock of hair, the edge of his sword shearing through it effortlessly, when he remembered another bit of witch lore.

Give a witch anything of yours, particularly part of your body, and she can conjure potent spells against you, or at least to serve herself.

Muhbaras allowed this thought to linger in his mind. Then he deliberately thought of refusing.

Instead of blasting him to ashes on the spot, the Lady of the Mists smiled. It was the smile of one to whose face such an expression is newly come and not altogether welcome. It seemed as if she was trying to put herself as well as him at ease.