Conan the Freelance Part 33

The Prime selkie continued his thoughts of glory and reward as he ran. Soon. He would be there soon.

"Hold!" Conan said as he ran past Tair and turned to face the man.

The tree dweller's face had the look of one who had consumed too much wine. He seemed to be in a trance, staring past Conan as if the Cimmerian were not there. He did not slow his steady gait toward the singers.

Peripherally, Conan caught sight of Cheen as she grabbed Hok. The boy struggled with his sister, fighting to free himself, but she was bigger and much stronger. Those muscles Conan had admired came into play, and the boy was held fast, despite his efforts to break free.

"Tair, you must stop. This is some kind of trap!"

Still Tair ignored Conan's warning.

The big Cimmerian considered the problem. How to stop the man without injuring him greatly? True, he could catch and hold Tair, but doing so would engage him, leaving Stead to continue toward the singers.

Conan decided what he must do. He clenched his right hand into a fist, and using this knotted hammer of flesh and bone, he punched Tair. He struck the tree dweller high on the torso, just under the breastbone.

Tair's wind left him with a strangled rush, and he dropped, doubled over to his knees, temporarily unable to breathe. As he clutched at his belly with both hands, Conan turned back toward the fishwomen and Stead.

Too late.

Stead was within a span of the nearest woman, and what happened then would stay with Conan forever. The woman smiled, and her lips kept spreading wider and wider, revealing a mouth that was impossibly large and teeth that belonged on a great cat or perhaps a dire wolf. That maw gaped, and the thing that looked half woman and half fish lunged at Stead, clasping him to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and sinking those horrible teeth into his neck.

Stead struggled, the spell broken, but it was beyond him to break free. He screamed. Blood ran from- the terrible wound in his neck, spurting and spraying over the monster clamped to him.

Crom! Conan jerked his sword from its sheath and leaped toward the thing killing Stead. So lost was it in its meal that it did not seem to notice Conan.

Blued iron flashed in the light of the setting sun, and the blade whistled as Conan whipped it down as might a man splitting wood with an ax. He had to slash to one side, to avoid striking Stead.

Sharpened iron met the flesh and bone of the thing's right shoulder and cleaved the arm free.

It screamed then, an inhuman screech that hurt Conan's ears. Dropping Stead, the thing moved for Conan like a striking serpent, wiggling on the ground, its remaining arm extended, hand hooked into a sharp-nailed claw.

Conan stood his ground, snapped the sword up over his head, and brought it down with all the strength of his ma.s.sive shoulders and arms behind the cut.

The blade split the she-creature's head in twain.

The dying thing twisted away in a final spasm and lay quivering on the weed.

The second of the singers slithered over the weed toward Conan. He leaped forward to meet her, and she reared up, balanced impossibly on that tail, arms spread wide to grab him. Conan shoved the point of his blade at her heart and ran her through.

She grabbed the sword in her hands and more blood flowed as her fingers were sliced open on the sharp edge, but such was her strength that she wrested the weapon from Conan's grasp as she fell dying to join her sister on the Sarga.s.so.

Conan twisted to face the third monster as it came for him. He prepared to grapple with the thing as it rose up from the snakelike sliding.

But just as the she-thing reached its full height, it sprouted a spear where its left eye had been.

The creature screeched and fell over backward, both hands wrapped around the haft of the spear that had pierced its brain, killing it.

Conan turned and saw Cheen standing there. Hok lay at her feet, looking dazed. He nodded at the woman. Once again that well-muscled arm had thrown true. She had saved him once more.

Stead, however, was beyond help. The side of his neck was a raw wound that had drained his life's blood. Even had Conan been able to reach him sooner, it was unlikely such a gaping hole could have been successfully stanched.

Conan rose from his examination of the dead man and retrieved his sword. Cheen, Tair, and Hok approached.

"Is he . . . ?" Tair began.

"Aye," Conan said.

"What were those things?" Hok asked.

Conan shook his head. "I know not. I do know that this Sarga.s.so is no place for us. The sooner we are away from here, the better."

"We had better hurry," Cheen said. "We do not wish to be out here after darkness."

Aye, there was a wise comment, Conan felt.

He said, "To the castle, then. We have scores to settle with whoever set these things against us.

"Aye," Tair said. "That we do."

Chapter TWENTY-TWO.

As the sun gave up his daily reign over the earth and night began to creep out around the edges of the world, the Palace of the Sarga.s.so loomed into Kleg's sight. Close as he was, he could see the pair of selkies standing by the southwestern-most entrance, their tall lances next to them.

At last! He was all the way home!

When the guards saw him, they snapped to alertness, their lances pointed toward him.

Kleg had a moment of worry. Was something wrong?

Then he saw the two recognize him. They relaxed their fighting stances and ordered their weapons.

Kleg released his own tight carriage and slowed to a more comfortable walk.

"Ho, my lord Prime," one of the guards said.

Kleg nodded imperiously. "How stands the watch?"

The other guard, one of Kleg's nest mates and therefore allowed a certain leeway in his speech with the Prime, said, "Dull, brother."

Kleg grinned. While all selkies were brothers, some were more so. The southwest entrance had always been considered an important post because it was nearest the kitchens. A quick guard could dart in and secure a succulent morsel-or one of the kitchen maids-and be back on his post before anyone was the wiser. Kleg knew, for he had once stood this same watch himself.

"See that it stays that way," Kleg said.

He strode past the pair to the first set of tall doors. He worked the latch, pushed the heavy wooden door noiselessly open on well-greased hinges, and stepped inside.

A torch lit the entranceway, showing the next set of doors, only two strides away. Beyond that portal was yet another, smaller door. Each of the forty-six entrances to the palace was constructed in a similar fashion. Even on the windiest of days, a careful pa.s.sage through the triple-protected entrances would stop even the faintest breeze from coming into the castle. In the form that he wore, He Who Creates could not abide wind, and woe to anyone who forgot that.