Conan the Hunter Part 29

His strength had ebbed, and he was dizzy from the loss of blood. He no longer felt the pain in his foot. His leg had gone numb from the knee down. In spite of these injuries, his Kezankian stubbornness kept him from laying down to die. Before this chamber became his tomb, he vowed to send a few of these scaly beasts back to h.e.l.l. Grimly, he prayed silently to Mitra and braced himself for his final battle.

In the chamber below, Conan also faced several of the beasts. He jumped onto the pile of gargoyle stone at the base of the door, aiming a slash at the beast on his right. With unexpected agility, the gargoyle dodged the blow and launched itself at the Cimmerian. Momentarily off balance, the barbarian could not raise his blade to meet the onrus.h.i.+ng beast. As he braced himself for the impact, the gargoyle on his left reached for the amulet with its daggerlike talons. Unexpectedly, the beast froze in mid-swipe as its talons brushed against the amulet's glowing surface.

The scaly horror turned instantly to stone, as Conan was slammed against the door by a rib-bruising impact with the other gargoyle.

The battered door burst open, too weak to withstand the combined weight of the two a.s.sailants. They spilled into the room beyond, in a confusing jumble of human and reptilian limbs. The amulet skittered away as Conan hit the floor. The gargoyle's ma.s.sive torso pinned down his sword-arm, but he had somehow managed to keep his sword in hand.

Grunting and writhing, Conan grappled with the beast. The immense creature outmatched even the powerfully muscled Cimmerian; its arms were twice the thickness of his. Using all of his skill and speed, Conan knew that he could do no more than temporarily keep the beast from strangling him. His sword was useless in such close quarters; he let go of its hilt. The broad-bladed dagger at his belt was unreachable. In desperation, he cast his gaze about the room, searching for a weapon with which to give himself an advantage.

His red-misted eyes settled on the tip of the barbed spike that had snapped as the door burst open. It was wedged point-up between the doorjamb and a large piece of rubble. Wrenching his pinned arm from underneath the beast, Conan fought for a solid hold on the gargoyle's rough, scaly hide. One of the creature's hands gripped his throat, and its talons were digging in, tearing the skin and slicing into the thick cords of muscle on Conan's bull neck. The beast's other hand was wrapped around Conan's left forearm.

The thews in Conan's right arm bulged as he tightened his grip on the gargoyle. Heaving, he s.h.i.+fted his weight and flipped the beast over onto the tip of the outthrust spike. The sharp, barbed shaft sank into the beast's short neck. The skewered gargoyle convulsed once, then again, before turning to stone.

Shaking from his exertions and breathing erratically, Conan rose to his feet. His neck was a ruin of ripped muscle and torn flesh. A red fog clouded his vision, and he felt light-headed from lack of breath. His only thought was to recover his sword and the amulet, and to help Kailash... if the hillman still lived. The other room had become strangely silent.

He took one look at his bent sword before casting it aside, drawing the broad-bladed dagger from its sheath in his belt. The short hairs on the back of his neck suddenly rose, and in spite of the desert heat, he felt a wave of icy cold pa.s.s over him.

Before him stood a black-garbed man, barefoot and weaponless. A small fire enveloped his right hand, illuminating his ageless face and dark, flinty eyes. Conan fought down an instinctive fear of sorcery and tightened his hand around the hilt of his dagger. He clearly faced a demon, or a sorcerer of some kind. In spite of the heat in the room, a deep chill crawled down his spine.

"I would welcome you were I a gracious host," the man said, smiling almost imperceptibly. "I am not. As for my wife, whom you have traveled so far to meet, she is... indisposed."

Conan gauged the distance to the sorcerer and readied his dagger for a throw. He trusted his aim, and he prayed that a blade through the heart would finish this black-eyed devil. Even as he tensed his arm and drew it back, the devil's sorcery lifted him from the stone floor.

"Yuzmek," Skauraul whispered, gesturing upward. "Akmak."

The iron outer doors swung open with a crash, and Conan was propelled out of the room, through the air. The Cimmerian reached for the door frame as he flew past it, but the motion simply set him spinning.

Skauraul rose him up high into the air, past the tower steps, and over the bed of spikes that rose threateningly from the sand.

"Azalmak-delmek."

As the Mutare spoke, Conan plummeted toward an upthrust iron spike.

He could see the gleaming tip rus.h.i.+ng toward him. The sharpened shaft ran through his leg, grated past the bone, but missed his vitals.

Grunting from the excrutiating pain, Conan gripped the shaft to keep it from tearing out. His iron will and vitality kept him from pa.s.sing out.

He turned his face to the sorcerer, who stood in the doorway, gloating.

"Insect!" the mage raved. "A hundred warriors like you could do nothing to stop me. Suffer the fate of fools who lack the wit to fear me! You may live until nightfall, if the vultures overlook you." Skauraul turned, his cold laugh ringing out at Conan from the tower chamber.

Thousands of years before, when Skauraul's reign of terror was at its apex, Cimmerians were a race unknown in the civilized world. So it was that the Mutare had never encountered a barbarian, else he would never have left so dangerous a foe alive.

With a howl of animal rage, Conan channeled all his might into the arm that still gripped the dagger. His aim was true, and Skauraul did not see the silvered steel as it hissed through the air like an arrow from a longbow. The broad, foot-long blade struck the Mutare from the side, shearing through his ribs. The dagger had no crossguard, so the raw force of Conan's throw buried it to the pommel.

Conan's attack would have been a last, futile gasp, as no normal blade could harm a Mutare. But fate had guided the Cimmerian's hand in King Eldran's palace armory. The ancient, broad blade that Conan had chosen had been forged from a unique silver spike. The spike had been a holy relic from Pelishtia, forged into a dagger by King Nathouk and given as a gift to King Maelcinis of Brythunia. Nathouk had taken the spike from the tomb of Derana.s.sib, the holy man who had slain Skauraul. The white-haired Derana.s.sib had appeared in Conan's strange dream.

Skauraul clutched at his side and doubled over, drawing his breath in sharply. He spun around and howled. His unearthly scream rang out across the desert, and before the echoes had faded, the Mutare had crumbled to grains of sand. The blade lay smoldering in the doorway, its metal edges orange-red as if just taken from a smithy's forge. A chance wind swept across the steps to the doorway, scattering the small pile of sand.

Clenching his teeth so hard that his jaw muscles ached, Conan threw his weight forward, snapping the barbed shaft that had speared his leg. He drew it completely through the wound, each inch bringing fresh waves of pain. Finally the barb was out. He threw it down in disgust, making a tourniquet of his sword-belt to stem the crimson flood from the wound.

Limping, he went up the steps into the tower.

From Lamici's cloak, he tore a few strips and bandaged the ghastly hole in his thigh. The dagger looked far too hot to handle; its blade was glowing more brightly than before, the red glare turned a yellow-orange. As he went to look for Kailash, it began hissing and smoking. The heat filled the room, baking Conan like a loaf in an oven.

His deeply bronzed skin turned red, and he reluctantly abandoned his search for Kailash; injured, the hillman could not have withstood the four gargoyles. The last sound he had heard from Kailash had been the horrible scream of a dying man. At least he had avenged his friend's death, and fulfilled his promise to the hillman.

Conan hurried out of the smoking tower, retrieving the last water-skin as he left. When his foot struck a small, metallic object, he unthinkingly scooped it up as he rushed out. Later, he would wonder how he came to hold the amulet.

The dagger on the floor was now glowing white-hot, and the room had begun to shake. When Conan reached the edge of the spike-bed outside the tower, the stone walls rumbled ominously.

A sudden explosion rocked the tower, and the stone slabs cracked and collapsed with an earsplitting roar, as if a G.o.d had smote the structure with a mighty hammer. Skauraul's fortress began crumbling into dust, as its maker had done only minutes before.

Conan continued his trek toward the outer walls with as much speed as he could muster. When he reached the ruined gates, only a broken stone ring and a pile of crumbling stone remained where the tower had once risen proudly.

The Cimmerian sighed. So much for the treasure he had hoped to find. He felt fortunate to have escaped with his life. Bowing his head to s.h.i.+eld his face from the sun, he began the grueling journey to the north.

Twenty-one.

A Parting of Ways -----------------.

Conan remembered little of his arduous trek through the desert. He had numbly traversed the sandy wasteland until it was far behind him. His water-skin had been empty for over a day. Barbaric endurance had kept his legs moving, one stride at a time, until he reached the southern tip of the Path of the Serpent.

Near the path, he had found water and a haven for sleep, refres.h.i.+ng his mind. His body still ached from the punishment he had endured at the fortress-he limped badly, and the leg wound was healing poorly. He shrugged this off; he had suffered worse in the past. Conan knew that he would reach Brythunia in spite of these wounds.

When he returned to Pirogia, he would tell Eldran his tale. He was certain that the king would give him a horse, supplies, and maybe even gold. He would bid Yvanna farewell; he smiled, for the first time in days, at this thought. Then he would leave for Zamora.

His mind occupied with these pleasant thoughts, the Cimmerian reached Innasfaln unmolested in several days of easy travel. He decided to stay at Malgoresh's inn for the night, in spite of the unpleasant memories the place held for him. A few tankards of ale would raise his spirits, by Crom! The innkeeper might even find him a horse.

He pushed open the taproom's new, pitch-smeared wooden door and strode in. It was late in the afternoon, but the sun had already begun to set.

A few locals looked up from their ale cups, then just as quickly looked away. At the back of the room, Conan saw the innkeeper's familiar face.

Malgoresh was leaning forward, intently conversing with two patrons who sat with their backs to the Cimmerian.

"Ale, by Crom!" he said as he reached the table.

Malgoresh looked up, and his jaw dropped in surprise. "By Hanuman's furry member 'tis Conan!" He smiled broadly.

One of the men at the table made a choking sound, spat out a mouthful of ale, and slammed down his tankard with a crash. He spun around to face the Cimmerian. Conan, in turn, felt a wave of shock engulf him.

"Kailas.h.!.+ By Crom and all the spirits of my fathers, I thought you were dead!"

He extended a scarred hand to the Kezankian, who grasped it. The hillman stood up slowly and pounded Conan on the shoulder with his free hand. The Cimmerian saw that Kailash's left leg was gone from the knee down. In its place was a freshly fas.h.i.+oned leg of wood.

"A thousand times I prayed to Mitra, hoping you might have escaped,"

the hillman said elatedly. "What befell you in the fortress?"

'Tell me your tale first. The last sound I heard from you was the scream of a man on the torturer's rack!" Conan sat down heavily on the bench.

Grinning, Malgoresh slammed fresh mugs of ale down on the table before them, as Kailash related the grisly events of his encounter with Azora and Xim.