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Authors: Robert Jordan

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BOOK: Conan The Destroyer
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Zula dropped to her knees, feeling along the bottom of the door. “If we can lift … there is no crack! None!”
“Stand back,” Bombatta roared, taking a two-handed grip on his sword. “I’ll break it if it can be broken.”
“
All
of you stand back,” Akiro shouted over them. “And be quiet,” he added. He rummaged in his pouch, sighing as he tossed aside powders ruined by the wet, yet continued to speak hastily the while. “This is no tavern brawl, to be settled with brute might. This Stygian is a sorcerer of puissance. Treat him as such, or we will all … ah, here it is.” Smiling in satisfaction, he brought out a small vial covered entirely with purest beeswax and marked with a seal of power.
“I do not see Jehnna,” Bombatta said suddenly. “The thief must be left to his fate. Jehnna must be found.”
“She is here,” Akiro said, not looking up from the task of peeling away the wax. The peeling must be done properly, or the contents would be useless. “Can you not sense … of course you cannot. The nexus is here, the center of all the powers of this palace.”
The last of the wax fell away, revealing a darkly shimmering compound that seemed at once grease and smoke. To this he touched the tip of the smallest finger of his left hand, and scribed a rune on the right-hand side of the transparent door. With the smallest finger of his right hand he drew the same symbol on the left-hand side of the door.
Akiro frowned as the runes began to hiss, as if boiling, but there was nothing to be done for it. Quickly he began to chant in silence. There were powers invoked with words spoken aloud, but he had found those dangerous, unreliable or foul, and often all three. Pressure built; he could feel it inside his head. They were spirits he summoned, spirits concerned with opening things that could not be opened, spirits concerned with lifting what could not be lifted. The pressure grew, and he knew they obeyed the calling. The pressure grew, and sweat beaded on his forehead. The pressure grew, and grew, and … .
With a gasp, he slumped and would have fallen had he not caught himself against the door.
“Well?” Bombatta demanded.
Shaking, Akiro stared at the door in wonder. The pressure was still there, enough to burst the gate of a castle, and to no effect. “A wizard most puissant,” he whispered, then added as he peered into the mirrored chamber, “If you believe in gods, then pray.”
 
S
lowly Conan moved around the mirrored chamber, broadsword held ready for any attack. The huge mirrors cast back his stalking form, multiplied ten thousand times as reflections of reflections were in turn reflected, and that of the glowing crimson gem that stood on a slim crystalline spire in the center of the room. Without break was the wall of grim images, and he realized that he was no longer certain which had fallen to hide the door through which he had entered.
He had avoided the gem before. The glow and its color told him all he needed of its nature. Never had he seen anything so scarlet; the hue alone made him want to squint. Such items of sorcerous power were dangerous when not understood—as he had learned in hard lessons—and scarcely less so when comprehension was complete. Still, it was the only thing in the chamber other than himself. Slowly he approached the narrow plinth, and stretched forth a hand.
“You provide little sport, barbarian.”
Spinning, the big Cimmerian searched for the source of the words, and when he found it he was hardly less surprised than at hearing them in the first place.
One tall mirror no longer depicted him, but rather a man in hooded, blood-red robes. At least, he assumed it was a man from the voice and the size. The deep hood hid the face in shadow, while the robe hung in vermilion folds to the floor and even the hands were covered by long sleeves that depended to points.
“I will provide no sport at all for you, Stygian,” Conan said. “Release the girl, or—”
“You become tiresome.” A score of voices behind him spoke the words, and all were the Stygian’s voice. Suspecting some form of trick to divert him, Conan risked a glance back. And stared. Twenty mirrors now held the hooded form.
“I will keep the girl, and you can do nothing.”
“She is the One, and the One is mine.”
“Muscles and steel avail you naught against
my
power.”
Conan felt as if his head were whirling. Each time there were more scarlet-robed images in the mirrors, chorusing the words, until he was surrounded by the mage, multiplied more than a hundred times. Hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stirred, and his teeth bared in a snarl. Yet many times had he met fear, and that stealer of will and strength was as familiar to him as the dark form of death. If the latter would one day surely conquer him, the former had no power he had not defeated a thousand times before.
“You think to frighten me, sorcerer? I spit on your power, for you hide behind it like a cowering dog. You have not the courage to face me like a man.”
“Brave words,” the multitudinous reflections murmured in oily tones. “Perhaps I shall face you.” Abruptly two of the images split in twain. From each of those mirrors one shape streaked in a blur of scarlet; the two blurs struck, merged, and the shape of the mage stood at one end of the chamber as well as in the mirrors. “Perhaps you will give some small sport, after all. You will not like it, barbar. I will kill you slowly, and you will scream for death long before it comes. Your strength will be as that of a child against me.”
With every word more of the mirrored forms divided, more flashes of crimson blazed across the chamber to sink into the hooded figure, and with each the figure grew slightly larger.
Twice, as blood-red streaks passed close to him, Conan struck at them with his sword. The steel whistled through them as through the air, with only a tingling along his arms to tell him the blade had met anything. The Cimmerian stood then, waiting rather than waste his effort in futility, until at last each mirror had given up its portion of the red-robed form that faced him. Taller than he by a head, it was, and twice as broad.
“This you call facing me?” Conan sneered. “Well, come then.”
The huge shape stripped back its hood, and as Conan started in spite of himself, hundred-fold laughter rolled from the mirrors. An ape’s head glared at him from atop the scarlet robes, as black as pitch and with gleaming white fangs made for the ripping of flesh. Its eyes held malevolent ebon fire. A tiger’s claws tipped its thick, hairy fingers. Slowly it shredded the robes, revealing a massive, ebon-haired body and heavy, bowed legs. No sound came from it, not even that of breathing.
A creation of sorcery it most certainly was, Conan thought, but perhaps it still could bleed. With a roar he bounded the length of the chamber, his broadsword a razor-edged windmill. Like a leopard the creature danced away from him, moving faster than he would have believed anything of that bulk could possibly move. And even in its dodging it struck—almost casually, it seemed—opening four crimson-welling slashes across his chest.
Grimly Conan followed. Three more times he struck at the great beast. Three more times, with silent snarls, it avoided his steel like quicksilver, and blood now dripped from his thigh, his shoulder, and his forehead. Full-throated laughter flowed from the mirrors in counterpoint to the frustrated curses the Cimmerian muttered under his breath. The creature’s every move was lightning, exhibiting none of the clumsiness of its shape. He had not so much as touched it yet.
Abruptly the monstrous sable ape charged, seized him in an instant, lifted him toward that slathering fanged mouth. He was too close to hack or stab with his sword, yet he slashed his blade sideways across the snarling face, slicing a gash through eye and nose and mouth. Claws dug into his ribs as green ichor rose in the wound, and the one remaining bulged in agony. With a heave of its massive arms Conan was sent hurtling across the chamber.
It could be hurt, flashed through the Cimmerian’s mind, and then he slammed into the wall, all the air leaving his lungs, and slid to the floor. Desperately he struggled to breathe, fought to regain his feet before the beast could reach him. He staggered to his feet … and stared in amazement.
The huge ape had sunk to all fours, and its mouth hung open as if it would moan if it were not mute. Yet that agonized sound was supplied a hundred times over by the images of the mage. In every mirror the form of the necromancer sagged and groaned in pain.
Not in every mirror, Conan realized suddenly. The mirror he had struck in his flight was crossed by a web of cracks and showed only shattered reflections, including, now, his own once more. He swung his blade against the next mirror. As the silvery surface fragmented beneath the blow, the figure of Amon-Rama within vanished, and the groans of the others became cries.
“I have you, sorcerer!” Conan shouted above the shrill ululations.
Along the wall he ran as fast as he could, pausing only to smash at each mirror as he passed. Image after image of the thaumaturge disappeared to the splintering of glass, to cries becoming howls, then shrieks.
The skittering of claws on the crystal floor warned the Cimmerian, and he threw himself into a roll just as the ape-creature lunged at him. His broadsword flashed as he came to his feet. A gash ran down the beast’s ribs, while he had gained another along his own ribs. It was slower, he thought; no faster, now, than a fast man. Still, he ran across the chamber, ignoring the monstrous form. Defeating the creature was no part of defeating Amon-Rama.
At the far wall Conan stabbed his sword viciously at the image of the necromancer in mirror after mirror. The screams now spoke of pain beyond knowing, and of desperation, as well. From the corner of his eye, Conan saw the huge ape scrambling toward him again, its lone black eye burning with a frantic light. Yet even in its haste, he noted, it circled wide around the glowing red gem.
Abruptly, with a splashing sound as if he had stabbed into water, Conan’s sword pierced the surface of a mirror. He could only stare. His blade went
into
the mirror, and into, as well, the image of Amon-Rama within. Silence was thick in the chamber, broken only by an occasional tinkling as a bit of broken mirror fell to the crystal floor. All of the unbroken mirrors save the one his sword transfixed now showed only normal reflections. The ape-beast was gone as if it had never been, though the burning of his gashes told him it most assuredly had been real.
Beneath the scarlet hood in the mirror a hawknosed face was painted with disbelief, and raven eyes shone hatred at the big youth. A ball of light suddenly oozed from the place where the blade entered the mage’s robes, flowed down the sword and exploded, hurling Conan away like a flung stone. Shaking his head, the Cimmerian got dazedly to his feet just as Amon-Rama stepped out of the mirror, its surface first bulging around him, then suddenly vanishing into vapor.
The necromancer did not look at Conan. Once he touched the sword that thrust from his chest as if to convince himself of its actuality. With staggering steps he moved toward the crimson gem atop its slim pelucid column.
“Cannot be,” the Stygian muttered. “All power would have been mine. All power … .”
His hand closed about the glowing stone, and the wail that ripped from him then, going on as if it would never end, made all the other sounds he had uttered pale to whispers. Scarlet light glared from between his fingers, brighter and brighter, until it seemed that his hand itself had taken on the color.
“Crom!” Conan whispered as he realized the hand
had
become crimson.
And the redness spread, up the sorcerer’s arm and through him, till he was as a statue of congealed blood, yet keening still. Abruptly the form collapsed into a sanguinary pool that boiled and bubbled, vermilion steam rising till naught was left save his broadsword lying on the crystal floor. And the gem, hanging unsupported in the air.
Carefully, with more than one hesitant glance at the crimson stone floating above his blade, Conan retrieved his weapon. The leather-wrapped hilt was hot in his hand, but the sword seemed unharmed. Swiftly he backed away from the sorcerous stone, and his skin crawled. Almost had he touched the accursed thing, before Amon-Rama began his fatal game.
With a deafening crash another of the mirrors burst, and Conan’s companions poured into the chamber.
“ … and I told you it would work,” Akiro was saying. “It took only the death of the sorcerer, releasing his hold on his majicks.”
“Ravana’s Weeping Eyes,” Malak said scornfully. “You said he was lucky. There was no luck. This Stygian should have known better than to oppose Malak and Conan.”
Akiro turned his attention to the Cimmerian. “You
were
lucky. One day your luck will run out like the sands from a glass, and what then?”
“You saw?” Conan asked, now that he could get a word in edgewise.
Akiro nodded, and Zula shivered. “That ape,” she murmured, looking about as if she suspected it might only be hiding.
“It is gone,” Conan said. “Let us find Jehnna and this Mitra-accursed key, and be gone as well.”
As though her name had summoned her Jehnna appeared, stepping through the gap left by the mirror from which Amon-Rama had come. Behind her was blackness made darker by the glittering crystal and mirrors in the chamber. She did not look at any of them, but walked slowly, surely, to the radiant red gem, hanging still where the Stygian sorcerer had left it.
“No!” Conan and Bombatta shouted together, but before either man could move she plucked the stone from the air.
“The Heart of Ahriman,” she said softly, smiling at the blood-red jewel in her hand. “This is the key, Conan.”
“That?” Conan began, then cut off as a tremor shook the floor. The walls shivered, and ominous crackings sounded.
“I should have known,” Akiro mused. “It was Amon-Rama’s will that held it, and with him dead—” Abruptly he stopped to glare at the others. “Well? Did you not hear me? Run, or we are all as dead as the Stygian!” As if for punctuation another quaver ran through the palace.
“The well!” Conan commanded, though the thought of that swim with the possibility that the palace might collapse atop them all was not one he enjoyed.
Akiro shook his head. “Allow me to show what I can do without the interference of Amon-Rama.” He gave Malak a significant look. “Watch.” Chanting silently, he moved his arms in strange patterns—it looked to Conan much like what he had seen at the wizard’s camp, yet in some fashion different—clapped his hands, and a fiery sphere shot from between his palms to strike a mirrored wall. There was no eruption, this time. Rather the ball of the fire spread and hollowed, like the flames of a hot coal touched to parchment. In only a moment it extinguished, leaving behind a roughly circular doorway melted in the crystal wall. “There,” Akiro said. “Now, Malak, have you seen anything to surpass—”
This time the palace danced and swayed, and a portion of another crystalline wall fell with a shattering crash.
“We’ll talk of our triumphs later,” Conan said, grabbing Jehnna’s arm. The others hesitated not a moment in following him through the way Akiro had provided.
Down glittering corridors of ethereal beauty they ran, and when the corridor bent away from the direction they wished to go Akiro melted yet another hole in the sparkling crystal walls. Faster and faster the shocks came, until they blended into one continuous gyration of the entire palace. Ornaments of unearthly exquisiteness burst apart, walls toppled in bounding chunks of pellucid stone, and twice entire stretches of the ceiling fell in solid blocks behind them.
BOOK: Conan The Destroyer
12.47Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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