Conan the Freelance Part 20

She and her single trooper, an unseasoned youth called Blad, stayed well back of the Tree Folk as they neared the edge of the desert.

Once they were in the greener land that lay ahead, they could move closer to the others. Perhaps they could pick them off one by one, lowering the odds slowly. Something would occur to her, sooner or later.

Kleg decided. Whatever the possible dangers in the lake of his birth, he would be much better equipped to deal with them in his Changed form. That thing back in the inn was larger and more fearsome than a selkie in the water, but given its shape, it could not possibly be as fast. And while there were smaller denizens who could give a swimming selkie pause, there were not many. Better he should be twice his present size and armed with a mouthful of teeth and muscular speed than to be caught here on the sh.o.r.e with nothing but a dagger and these puny land legs. He did not have to take the most direct route to the castle, after all. There were a thousand pathways through the weed.

So be it.

The decision made, Kleg immediately felt better. He worked his way toward the docks, moving in the shadows, taking great care not to be seen. Once he reached the water, it would be but a short swim to the edge of the Sarga.s.so. Yes, this was the wiser decision, to be sure.

As he drew nearer to his goal, Kleg slipped the belt and pouch from his waist, rebuckled the belt, and put it over his head and around his neck. The material of the belt was of some special elastic substance that would easily stretch to accommodate the much-thicker body he wore as a Changed selkie. He Who Creates was nothing if not thorough.

Only a few feet from the water, Kleg patted the pouch around his neck. How light the talisman was; he could hardly tell anything was within the thick leather container. He shook the pouch and listened for the rattle he had grown used to the last few days.

The talisman did not rattle.

Kleg's action only served to cause the flap of the case to gape open. How could that be? He had tied it most securely!

With a sensation of sinking panic, Kleg reached into the leather pouch and groped for the talisman.

And found that it was gone.

The crowd standing on the narrow street in front of the Wooden Fish received a great surprise when, all of a moment, a monster burst through the front door, destroying the portal and bringing half the wall down in the process.

Standing to one side of the gathering was a gnarled man, of boylike stature, named Seihman. He had been strong and adventurous once, but now he was known as Seihman of the swine, for that was his work these days, to care for the boars and sows owned by one of the village's richer men. Hardly a glorious function, but it kept him in food and wine-mostly wine-and was certainly better than starving-or worse, dying of thirst.

When the hideous beast broke through the wall of the inn, Seihman's reaction matched that of the rest of the curious: he turned to flee. Around him, the crowd broke like a fat raindrop striking a smooth stone. Seihman, whose best years were long past, ran for all he was worth, trying to watch the demon or whatever at the same time. His initial burst of speed was quite remarkable in that it was unmatched by any younger man on the street; alas, Seihman managed only three such quick bounds before he stepped upon something hard and roundish, tripped, and fell flat on his back.

The crowd vanished like smoke in a high wind, and Seihman found himself sprawled alone on the street altogether too close to a creature large enough to swallow him in one gulp, had it a mind to do so.

"Mitra, spare me!"

Seihman had not spent a copper or a moment in one of Mitra's temples in twenty winters, but he inwardly swore to make amends for this lack if only the Divine One would see fit to allow him this one small favor.

The beast, as ugly a thing as Seihman had ever beheld, glanced without apparent interest at the fallen man, then turned and trotted off down the street toward the lake.

Seihman managed to sit up. "Oh, blessings on you, Divine Mitra! I am in your debt!"

As the monster ambled away from him, Seihman chanced to look down to see what had tripped him.

What was this here odd-looking eye-shaped thing? Some kind of pit, much larger than any he had ever seen, though. A seed?

Seihman gingerly picked up the Seed and hefted it in one hand. Maybe it had some value? Standing, he put the Seed inside his ragged tunic, where it rested warmly against the skin of his aged belly. He would take it by Old Talow, the vegetable merchant. Maybe Talow might recognize it, and who knowed? Maybe he would even buy it. Could be it might be worth a mug of cheap wine, maybe.

Before the curious could return, Seihman shuffled off toward his lodging behind the swine pens. He began to spin a story in his mind to tell his friend the goatherd over a mug of wine when next they met: Aye, I did see the thing what wrecked the Wooden Fish. Come right at me, it did, but I stood my ground all alone and stared it down, and it turned tail and runned off.

Well. It was almost true.

Dawn broke cloudless, splashing the land next to the river with pale and cool sunshine.

The recent rains had washed out most of the tracks of the fleeing selkies, but when Conan and the Tree Folk reached the bank of a rushing river, they found ample evidence of the fishmen.

Lying on the sh.o.r.e were five or six dead selkies, of two versions: one like those Conan had seen at the trees, only these were bloated and purple and covered with buzzing flies. The other version of selkie was a great fish twice the size of a man, with an underslung jaw full of teeth and a smooth, tapering body with long fins and tail. These also were swollen in death, fly-blown, and two of the corpses had small spears lodged in them. The air stank of poison, and this was confirmed by the fact that no scavengers had been at the meat and fish. The flies, too stupid to know better, ate and died by the hundreds.

"Hie, look here!" Hok called.

Conan moved to where the boy stood. Hok pointed down at tracks in the drying mud. Conan recognized them from his time in the desert. Pili.

Well. It took no genius to understand what had happened here. The Pili and the selkies had fought, and it seemed that the Pili had gotten at least a few of the fishmen.

Cheen came to stand next to Conan. "There are some dead Pili farther downstream," she said.

"And it looks as if there are more Pili tracks on the other side of the river, though it's hard to say from here," the Cimmerian said.

"You have good eyes," Cheen said.

"We should make a raft and cross. There, on the opposite side, someone else has already done so." He pointed at a wooden platform beached slightly downstream.

Cheen said, "Aye, that has the look of our construction. Tair is still ahead of us."

"Best we move to catch him."

"You do not think there are any more like these in the water, do you?" She pointed at one of the great fish, then shuddered.

"Likely not. No reason for them to stay, if any survived."

They set about building a raft, a ch.o.r.e that took not as long as Conan would have supposed. The Tree Folk were very good with wood and vine, and in a matter of hours, they were done.

The crossing was uneventful.

"Another day's travel and we should arrive at a village on the sh.o.r.e of the Sarga.s.so lake," Cheen said as they disembarked from the raft. "So I have been told. I have never been there myself."

"And past that?"

"The Mist Mage lives in the weed. He has a floating castle in the middle. No one has ever gone there and returned, save his creatures."

"Best hope we catch the selkies before then," Conan said.

Aye.

Thayla and Blad counted the dead Pili they found along the riverbank. There were at least a dozen, and the Dragon knew how many more might have been washed downstream out of sight. That fool, her husband, did not seem to be among the corpses. Thayla was unsure of how to react to this. While Blad moaned over dead comrades, Thayla felt that the discovery was somewhat a mixed blessing. Had the king been among the fallen, her chase would have been over. She would be queen, could choose some pliant male as consort-maybe even Blad here-and live out her days in what luxury she could force from the Pili.

But as long as Rayk lived, there existed the chance that he would find out about Conan. Of course, she had survived such rumors before, because the transgressor in question had always been devoured and therefore had been unable to answer any questions about the matter. Even a fool expected no reply from a boiling pot of soup. But Conan lived, and as long as he and her husband both continued to do so, she was in peril.

"We need a raft," Thayla told Blad. "Construct one so that we may cross."

"At once, my queen."

"You need your strength now," she said, smiling at the young male, "but after we cross the river, perhaps I can find a way to suitably reward you for your steadfast service, Blad my worthy." Might as well bind him to her personally, she decided.