Conan The Valiant Part 32

"Shelter? Here? What do you think we are, the Royal Palace of Turan?"

Captain Shamil's temper seemed little improved. "Even if we were, no pack of smelly hillmen will overrun-"

Kemal glared. The captain raised a hand to the archers on the wall.

Conan sidled to the left, ready to fling the messenger clear of the arrows. He would happily have flung Shamil over the walls like a dead goat from a siege engine. Had he and his charges not so direly needed peace with Fort Zheman and all in it-

"Captain, I'd wager we can bring at least the women and children inside," Khezal said. He must have conjured his armor on to his body by magic, for he was now fully dressed for the field. His helmet and mail were silvered, but both showed an admirable array of patches and dents.

"We have room," Khezal continued. "Or at least we will, once we have formed a column to march upcoun-try. If we guard their women and children, will the men of the village join us? We shall need guides, and all the stout arms we can find."

Conan observed that Khezal said nothing of the garrison being well under strength. His opinion of the man's wisdom and prudence rose further.

"By Mitra and Erlik, I swear to ask." Kemal swallowed. "I cannot swear that all will follow. If Bora lends his voice, however-"

"We don't need to bribe cowards with our own roof and rations!" Shamil shouted. It seemed to Conan that, foiled in his designs against Raihna, the captain sought someone to bully.

Conan was equally determined to defeat him. "Are the other villages in the area in flight as well?" he asked Kemal.

"I rode to none, for Bora's orders were to come here at once. I am sure Bora has sent messengers on foot or on lesser horses than Windmaster to all he thinks in danger."

"Mitra! We are to follow the whims of a stripling, who may be mad or a traitor for all I know. Indeed, isn't he the son of the Rhafi who lies in Aghrapur, suspected of-"

"Rhafi is innocent of everything except quarreling with your greedy louts of soldiers!" Kemal shouted. His hand leaped to the hilt of his knife. Shamil's hand rose to signal the,archers.

Neither hand completed its motion. Conan gripped both wrists and twisted, until he had the complete attention of both men.

"Are you demons in disguise, or what? If there are demons, we're fools to fight among ourselves. If there are none, something besides too much wine is frightening people!"

"Exactly so," Khezal said, like a mother seeking to calm fractious children. A second glance told Conan that the man was balanced and ready to draw his sword, against whoever might need it.

"If all the villages come down, we can pick the best men to march with us. The rest can help garrison the fort, or escort those who travel on to Haruk."

"They'll find scant hospitality in Haruk, after last night's riot,"

Shamil said. "Scanter here, though, unless we feed them all the rations we'll need for the march." He shrugged. "Do as you wish, Khezal. You speak with my voice. I go to see to my armor and horses."

The captain turned away. Before he could depart, a dulcet voice spoke up.

"Captain, permit me to help you. I know it is not easy to garb oneself with a wounded arm. I have some experience in helping men in such trouble."

It was Dessa, standing between and slightly in front of Illyana and Raihna. Ma.s.souf stood behind the women, wearing trousers and a ferocious look. The girl wore an ankle-length robe, but, Conan judged, not a st.i.tch under it. Certainly Shamil could not have been staring at her more intently had she been naked.

Then he smiled. "Thank you-Dessa, is it not? If you will help me arm, I have some wine too fine to jounce about in a saddlebag. We can share it before we march."

"All I can do for you, shall be done." Dessa said. She slipped her arm through Shamil's and they walked off together. Ma.s.souf's glare followed them, and the man himself would have done so but for Conan's grip on his arm and Raihna's dagger pointed at his belly.

"You filthy panderers," Ma.s.souf hissed, struggling vainly to escape the Cimmerian's iron grip.

"We send Dessa nowhere she does not gladly go," Raihna replied.

Conan nodded. "Use your wits and not your tool, Ma.s.souf. The G.o.ds made Dessa a free-spirited wench. You won't make her a .quiet little wife.

There's a woman somewhere fit for that, if you really want her. Spend your time seeking her, not trying to change Dessa."

Ma.s.souf shook himself free and stalked off, muttering curses but at least traveling in the opposite direction to Dessa and Shamil. Khezal looked after him.

"I'll have a watch kept on that young man," he said. Conan grinned.

Khezal was probably a year or more younger than Ma.s.souf, but seemed old enough to be his father. "Best you keep a watch on your own backs, too.

At least until Captain Shamil's been so well bedded he'll not be thinking of women for a while."

"Dessa's the one to do that," Raihna said.

"I believe you," Khezal said. "She puts me in mind of a younger Pyla."

"You know Pyla?" Conan exclaimed.

"Did she never speak of the young officer she spent a week with, last year?" Khezal's scarred chest seemed to swell with pride and pleasurable memory.

"No. She's never been one to bed and brag. But if she endured your company for a week-" Conan made a parody of the court bow.

Khezal nodded, his smile fading. He stepped closer to Conan and said, voice pitched barely above a whisper, "In truth-what are you? I'll not say you told us tales without reason, but..."

"Raihna?" Conan said.

The swordswoman nodded and drew from between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s the coin badge of Mishrak's service. Khezal studied it for a moment, then nodded again, his face still more sober.

"As well you told us tales. Nor will I tell the captain, unless it's life or death. I've heard things of him-no, I'll hold my peace on that, too, unless it's life or death. But I would ask you to give whatever help you can, all three of you. We're scantily supplied with leaders even for the trained men. With the recruits and Mitra knows how many villagers thrown in..."

"We'll help," Conan said. "I've served-the owner of that coin-just long enough to want a good fight, sword in hand!"

By night, stonefire could be turned to any color, none, or a hideous travesty of a rainbow. It all depended on the spell.

Eremius chose a spell that would make the stonefire in Winterhome not only colorless but invisible. Until he felt the heat, anyone who wandered close would have no idea what he faced. If he drew back in time and fled, he would flee with his mind reeling with fear and run until his body reeled with exhaustion.

The more fear, the better. Too many villagers had already fled beyond the reach of the Transformed. Only fear would keep them fleeing, until they brought the garrison of Fort Zheman out to destruction. Then the land would be defenseless and the villagers could be rounded up at leisure. Their fear would feed what the Transformed used in place of souls, before their flesh fed the Transformed's hunger.

Eremius held his staff at waist height and swept it in a half-circle, across the whole front of the village. Five times he stopped the movement. Each time, a globule of stonefire leaped from its head, soared across the hillside, and plunged into the village. Each globule glowed briefly, then settled down to invisibly devour all in its path.

By dawn Winterhome would be smoking rubble like Crimson Spring. So would the other three villages denuded of their inhabitants by fear of the Transformed.

Eremius turned and snapped his fingers at his Jewel-bearer. The prisoner had knelt throughout the firecasting, eyes wandering mindlessly. Nor had Eremius called on the power of the Jewel. He had mastered stonefire years before he had touched either of the Jewels of Kurag.

The prisoner now lurched to his feet. Then his eyes rolled up in his head and he began to toss his arms and flap his hands. Like some impossibly clumsy bird, he actually rose a finger's breadth into the air. Eremius raised his staff in front of him and hastily gave ground.

The Jewel-bearer rose higher. Smoke boiled from either edge of the great arm ring. The stench of burning flesh a.s.saulted Eremius. Only iron will kept him from spewing like a woman newly with child.

The Jewel-bearer now floated a man's height above the ground. His mouth gaped so wide that it seemed his jaws could hardly remain in their sockets. His eyes had turned the color of sour milk.

Suddenly his body arched, lungs and chest and mouth together hurled out a single gurgling scream, and the Jewel-ring burned through the arm holding it. It clattered to the rocky ground. Eremius's heart seemed to leap from his breast in the moment before he saw that the Jewel was intact. He knelt and hooked the ring clear of danger with his staff.

Barely had he done this when the Jewel-bearer crashed to the ground. He sprawled as limp as an eel, every bone in his body save for the severed arm seemingly broken. Eremius hastily left off his prodding of the Jewel-ring and once more gave ground.