Conan the Fearless Part 29

A funnel began near one edge of the dry spot underlying the wagon and sought to cross to the opposite side. Lemparius would have moved, but the hail chose that moment to cease falling and the relative quiet might have allowed the witch to hear such a movement. So the panther held his place as the cold finger of water reached his belly and began to puddle there, running along his length.

His nostrils flared and the panther laid his ears back in rage. Yet another indignity for which Djuvula owed him. He cursed inwardly, but remained as a stone statue as the cold and muddy water soaked his fur.

As quickly as it had begun, the rain stopped. The stars appeared behind the scudding clouds along with a sliver of settling moon. As the storm faded so did the glow surrounding Vitarius. For a moment the wizard looked tired. Then he took a deep breath and straightened slightly, shaking off the weariness as a dog shakes off water.

"It has been too long since I played these games," Vitarius said. "I am out of practice."

Grudgingly, for all his dislike of sorcery, Conan said, "You did well enough."

"Aye, but these are but small tests. When Sovartus tries with real force, I shall have to do better."

The Cimmerian nodded.

"Then the sooner we get to yon castle, the sooner we can depart this cursed plain."

"Aye, Conan. Ride on."

They urged their horses onward.

High in his castle, Sovartus became aware of an irritation, something amiss in the mystical web of forces with which he surrounded himself.

On Dodligia Plain a faint glimmer of ant.i.thetical forces existed where none should, as a boil upon otherwise healthy skin. Well, he had no time for such things. He sent a wind to blow it away.

Sovartus returned to his preparations for the arrival of the girl of Fire. He donned his virgins'-hair robe, feeling the power it carried.

He called for a bottle of his oldest and finest wine and sipped of the liquid as he contemplated his new place in the cosmic scheme of things.

Ah, what power he would command!

He felt an itch in his side then, but it was metaphysical and not manifested in his own flesh. He expanded his consciousness, searching for the source of the bothersome itch.

d.a.m.nation! That glimmer upon the plain remained despite his broom of nightwind. Well, he could take another moment from his antic.i.p.ation of glory to deal with it. Within his own sphere of influence Sovartus need not call for everything upon any of the Three he had pent. He was not without powers of his own, especially so close to his lair. He called for a storm, sending h.e.l.lish force upward into the skies to shape the resulting tempest to his will. Then, like a boy casting a ball, Sovartus sent the tropical zephyr toward the troublesome speck. Defy this, insect!

Presently, the itch grew worse. After his astonishment that it persisted, Sovartus knew it for what it was: Vitarius, of the White, moved against him!

Truly astounding. Surely the old man knew better? He had not even kept himself young with his magic-those of the White seldom used their powers for personal gain or enhancement-and even if he were senile; he must know how foolish it would be to proceed against one of the Black in his own Square of power.

When the girl of Fire had been taken, Sovartus had given Vitarius no further thought; unless the man were mad, he would simply go away, for he could not hope to compare his feeble powers with those of Sovartus's own. To contend would be suicide-the man had to know that--even if Sovartus did not control the Thing of Power, which he shortly would.

There was very little for the White Square to draw upon here, not with the near-omnipotence of the Black focused as it was upon this plain.

Hogistum had taught them both that White and Black had their places; and this place belonged to the Black as surely as night followed day.

Vitarius had been the better student, he must know that.

Unless-unless Vitarius had some hidden focus? Some trick he concealed to spring upon an unwary opponent?

Sovartus rubbed at his face with one hand. Yes. That must be it. The old man has some hidden card: he had to have such. Best I find out what it is before I do anything that might turn back upon me, Sovartus thought. A probe, to see how Vitarius reacts.

Sovartus smiled, pleased with his sharpness of wit. And he had just the thing to try upon his old training mate. Just the thing . . . .

Dawn approached, but darkness still reigned when Vitarius once again motioned for Conan to halt. The two men had only a short distance left before reaching the base of Sovartus's mountain-castle, and Conan had hoped they might do so without further incident. He was wrong.

Vitarius said, "Our enemy is about to task us. And it will be no small thing this time. I think it better that we should part, Conan. You must ride for the castle; I shall try to occupy Sovartus while you search for the children. And Kinna. May the White protect you, Conan of Cimmeria."

Conan slapped at the hilt of his sword. "I will put my faith elsewhere, old one. But I wish you good luck. I will return with the children and Kinna as soon as I can."

The old mage nodded, and waved one aged hand. He alighted from his horse and sat cross-legged upon the ground.

Conan spared him a final glance before turning his attention-and his horse-back toward Castle Slott.

Djuvula felt a p.r.i.c.kling on her skin as she drew near the old magician.

The air was full of antic.i.p.atory flux, presaging some magical production. Even within her concealing shroud of darkness she felt a chill touch her.

She was nearly past the old man, who sat upon the bare ground with his eyes closed when he called out. Djuvula started at his words.

"Ho, witch; best if you depart this area quickly. There is apt to be some spillage from my coming confrontation with Sovartus."

Djuvula almost spoke, then thought better of it. Could he really see her?

Vitarius answered her unspoken thought. "Aye, I have known you followed us for some time, witch. And I know, too, of that which shadows you.

Whatever your purpose, you would be better served to turn around and flee. My sense of future is very dim for the most part; but in this instance I see ruin for many near to this venture."

Djuvula stared at the White magician. What did he mean, that which shadows me? And what of his ill prophecy? Djuvula's chill intensified, and she glanced around the edge of her wagon, searching for any pursuer. She saw none.

No point in maintaining the cloaking spell, she knew. She allowed the shroud to dissipate. For a moment she considered what the old man had said. She decided to ignore him. He was about to receive the brunt of Sovartus's magical ire; he was no threat to her. And, more important, the barbarian no longer had the White to look after him.

The witch grinned. Conan would have gone on ahead to the castle.

Djuvula still knew not why, but that was where she would find him. She popped her whip at the horses.

The White mage never opened his eyes, but he spoke three words as Djuvula drove past, three words that touched her as might a fiery brand upon her flesh: "You were warned."

Chapter Nineteen.

The first gleamings of morning light found Conan staring at the entrance to a large cave in Castle Slott's mountain base. The hole in the rock was easily large enough for a mounted man to enter, a perfect, open invitation at the end of the trail leading to the wizard's home.

Conan grinned. The cave mouth was, if anything, too perfect and too open. His experience as a thief had taught him many things, not the least of which was to beware of things that looked too good to be true.

His memories of the easy stroll into the home of Senator Lemparius were all too fresh in his mind; only a fool refused to learn from his mistakes. Conan of Cimmeria would not march into what must be a trap.

How else to enter the mountain, then? He smiled and looked up at the wall of craggy rock. He was, after all, a Cimmerian; mountains had yet to be made that could not be climbed, especially by those hardy northern people from whom Conan had been bred. He would go up, and he would find a way.

Before he did, however, Conan was curious about some thing his sharp senses detected in a stand of trees not far from where he now sat on his horse. There came the sounds of pent animals, and the odor of beasts tainted the morning air.

He slid from his mount and used a large rock to peg the animal's bridle to the ground. Moving with catlike grace, the big man went to see what lay within the cover of the trees.

Horses: A corral full of them milled about, guarded by a single man wearing a hooded black robe and holding a long staff. To one end of the enclosure sat a wattle-and-daub stable, with piles of hay and grain within.

From the cover of a thick-leaved bush Conan's grin stretched as wide as it got. Well, well, well.

The Cimmerian backed away from the corral. He would certainly return here when he had done his business with Sovartus; for now, however, he must finish that business.

Conan removed the bridle and unsaddled his mount, allowing the animal to graze among the sedge. No telling how long his errand might take, and there was no point in the horse suffering while his master was gone. He hid the mount's gear carefully, taking only a skin of wine and some dried meat for supplies. He made certain his sword and Lemparius's knife were securely in place, then approached the outcrops of the mountain. Pausing only to remove his sandals, he began his climb.