Conan The Destroyer (16 page)

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Authors: Robert Jordan

BOOK: Conan The Destroyer
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“The Sleeping God will never die,” Taramis intoned.
“Where there is faith,” came the response from the kneeling priests, “there is no death.”
She flung wide her arms. “This is the Night of Awakening,” she cried, “for the One has come!” The reply echoed from the walls.
“All glory to the One, who serves the Sleeping God!”
The half score black-armored guards, their spears precisely slanted, but standing well back so as to be out of the way, shifted uneasily. From the colonnade came the piping of flutes, beginning their litany of coming sacrifice and anointment. The velvet black sky arched above, glittering stars set in a pattern they would not attain again for another thousand years. The moment had come.
Power, Taramis thought while the echos still shivered the air. Power and immortality were hers.
Conan slid to a halt as a man stepped into the corridor ahead of him, a man black-armored and even more massive than he, with a naked tulwar in his hand.
“I knew you must come this way, thief,” Bombatta said softly. His scarred face was grimmer than ever before behind the nasal of his sable helm. “When I found the bodies, I knew then that you lived. And I knew you would run to the great court to save her. But if I cannot have Jehnna, no mortal man will have her.” His blade came up, gleaming in the lamplight. “She goes to the god, thief.”
Motioning the others to hang back, Conan moved closer. In the confines of the tapestried hall they could only hinder, not help. The Cimmerian gripped his sword with both hands, holding it erect before him.
“Have you lost your tongue?” Bombatta demanded. “In moments the girl dies in the very center of this palace, I tell you. Rage at your loss, thief. Let me know your despair and lose my own in the slaying of you.”
“This is no time for talking,” Conan replied. “It is a time for dying.”
The two blades moved, then, as one. The clanging of steel on steel filled the hall as they wove a deadly lace between the two big men. Attack and counterattack, thrust and riposte, followed so closely one on the other that it seemed as though lightning flashed and danced.
Abruptly Conan’s broadsword was torn from his grasp. Triumph flared in Bombatta’s face, but even as the blow struck Conan’s foot lashed out, sending the giant Zamoran’s blade spinning. The two men crashed together, grappling. For an instant each strove to reach his dagger, then Bombatta’s huge hands closed on Conan’s head and twisted, and the Cimmerian gripped the black helm, one hand on its bottom edge, the other above the dark nasal. Feet shifted and scuffled for balance, and hard-drawn breath was the sound of battle, now. Massive thews bulged, and joints popped with the strain.
A grinding crack sounded, not loud, yet seeming to drown all else, and Conan found that he supported a boneless mass. For an instant he stared into those black eyes, as death filmed them, then let Bombatta fall.
“Time is running out,” Zula said, “and we still do not know where to find her.”
Working his neck, Conan retrieved his sword. “But we do. He told us. The great court in the center of the palace.”
“He also said she was to die in moments,” Malak reminded him.
“Then there is no time to stand here talking,” Conan said. “Come.”
“O great Dagoth,” Taramis intoned, “on the Night of Awakening we, thy servants, come to thee.”
The flutes shrilled madly as she took Jehnna’s arm. Xanteres took the other, and between them they led the girl to the head of the great reclining form of the god, its noble forehead marred by the dark, circular depression. Holding the Horn before her, Jehnna moved unresistingly.
“O great Dagoth,” the tall princess chanted, “on the Night of Awakening, thy servants call to thee.” In a whisper she spoke to Jehnna. “The Horn, child. Place the Horn as you were told.”
Jehnna blinked, hesitated, and Taramis’ breath caught at the fear that the potion’s effect might have worn off. Then slowly the slender girl set the base of the golden Horn into the depression in Dagoth’s forehead.
A tremor passed through the huge, alabastrine form. Marble hardness softened, and took on the hue of human skin. The eyelids fluttered.
Relief flooded through Taramis. Nothing could halt it, now. The Sleeping God was awaking. And the Horn was no longer sacrosanct to Dagoth and the One, alone. But it all had to be finished, and quickly now.
“O great Dagoth,” she called, “accept this, our offering and pledge to thee. Accept thy third anointing, the Anointing of the One.”
Jehnna did not even start as Xanteres tangled his left hand in her hair and bent her forward over the recumbent god’s head. A gilded dagger flashed in his hand as he raised it.
Bursting into the great courtyard, Conan took in the scene before him, the black-armored guards, the kneeling priests in gold, the huge, horned form that seemed to be just beginning to stir. And Jehnna, throat arched for the knife in the hands of the white-bearded man.
An instant it took him to see, and in that same instant he was moving. His sword was tossed from right hand to left, the fisted pommel smashed into the ebon helmet of a guard, his right hand tore the spear from the guard’s grasp. As the dagger moved toward Jehnna he threw. The spear lanced a dark streak across the courtyard, and the dagger dropped to the marble tiles as the white-bearded man, a wavering shriek rising from his throat, clutched at the thick black shaft that pierced him.
An instant, and in that instant the courtyard swirled into chaos. Black-armored guards turned to battle Conan, who suddenly found Malak fighting at his side. Zula dashed across the court, beating golden-robed priests from her path with her staff, to seize Jehnna’s arm and drag her away from the huge, now-quivering form.
“There is yet time,” Taramis screamed. “It must be done! It must be!” On hand and knees she scrambled for the fallen dagger.
And the huge form of Dagoth sat up, the shape of a gigantic man, too handsome for humankind, with a golden horn standing out from his forehead. The air in the court turned chill as it moved, and no man or woman there but froze. The noble head turned, great golden eyes surveying the courtyard. Then suddenly the head was thrown back, and Dagoth howled. Staggering to his feet, he howled such agony as had never been known on the face of the earth.
As if the terrible sound had freed him from paralysis, Conan found he could move again. He gripped his sword and set himself, but the guards before him threw down their spears and fled, brushing past him as if what else was in that courtyard made the steel in his hands no longer worth fearing.
Dagoth’s form rippled, now, as though knots grew beneath the skin. Bulging, writhing, it grew and changed. In the twinkling of an eye its skin became coarse. The brow sloped back, and the jaw grew forward, fangs thrusting past lips. Arms and legs thickened, and claws sprouted on the ends of fingers. The skin of the back split, and leathery wings as of a monstrous bat came forth. Grotesquely male, hunched and twisted, yet three times the height of a man, Dagoth stood, and only the huge golden eyes were unchanged.
Those eyes came to rest on Taramis, kneeling with the dagger clutched to her breasts and her face slack with horror. “You!” It was as if thunder had spoken, and with the tongue of thunder. “Out of your own mouth, Taramis, are you promised to me!”
Hope dawned on Taramis’s face. “Yes,” she breathed. Leaping to her feet she ran toward the god. “I am promised to thee,” she cried. “And thou wilt gift me with power and immortality. Thou wilt—”
Clawed hands pulled the noblewoman to Dagoth, and the huge wings folded around them, hiding her. From beneath those wings came a crystalline wail of purest pain and disbelief. The wings opened, and Dagoth tossed aside a robe of scarlet silk.
“Thus it is,” the thunder roared, “to know a god, and be known by a god!”
Zula had stopped to stare in horror at the garment that was all that remained of Taramis, and Jehnna stood beside her, seemingly unaware of what occurred about her.
Dashing forward, Conan grabbed each woman in turn, pushing them toward the shelter of the palace. “Run!” he commanded, and they ran.
“No, mortal!” Came the thunder. “She is the One, and the One is mine!”
Conan felt the ground tremble as Dagoth took a step. The women could never outdistance that monstrous form. Time would have to be bought for them. Certain for the first time in his life that he faced something he could not defeat, Conan turned to confront the god.
Suddenly a fireball streaked over his head to strike Dagoth’s chest. It bounced away like a pebble from a mountain, yet even as it did another struck, and another. “Run, Cimmerian!” Akiro shouted. “Erlik take you, run! I cannot hold such as this forever!”
Dagoth’s wings stiffened, then snapped together behind his back like a thunderclap. And as if that sound had called invisible lightning Akiro was flung into the air and hurled backwards.
“And you, mortal!” Dagoth thundered at Conan. “Would you oppose a god? Know the fear of what you do.”
Then did Conan feel fear rolling over him, fear primordial, fear so strong that it felt as though his very bones would split asunder. Overpowering waves of it crashed on him, pushing that which called itself Conan of Cimmeria back, back beyond knowledge of civilization or fire or speech, back to the ancient creature that knew no gods, the creature that survived its lack of claws and fangs because it was more deadly than leopard or bear. That creature knew but one response to fear. With a roar the cave sloth knew and feared, Conan attacked.
His broadsword slashed deep, and Dagoth laughed like a storm at sea as bloodless wounds healed even as they were made. Claw-tipped hands seized the Cimmerian, lifted him toward gaping fangs, and still Conan hacked with a mad fury that would not quit till death overtook him.
Yet as he fought, dim words penetrated Conan’s brain. “The horn!” Part of him struggled to listen, while the greater part raged to kill. Akiro, that small part thought. “He is only vulnerable through the horn!” the wizard shouted.
Conan was raised before the golden eyes, and he returned their gaze unafraid. Fear had been purged from him by the blood-red madness that screamed to slay or die.
The Cimmerian laughed as he let his sword fall and seized the horn; it was like seizing lightning, yet he voiced his deathly grim laughter. Massive shoulders knotted, he tore the golden horn from that monstrous head. Pain flared in the god’s xanthic eyes, and the fanged mouth opened wider to rip at the human who had wounded him. But the insane rage of the attacker had not left Conan. As he ripped the horn free, he reversed it, thrust it point first into one of the golden globes that stared at him, shoved it deep with all his might.
The howl that Dagoth had loosed before was a whisper to the scream that came from him now. Conan was flung through the air, spinning end over end, to crash to the marble tiles. Higher and higher the shriek rose. Suddenly it could not be heard at all. but now the Cimmerian’s skull vibrated, and white-hot daggers bored at his ears. Clawing at his head, he struggled to rise. He must fight. He must kill. He must … .
A measure of sanity returned to him amid the pain as he realized that he was seeing stars. Through Dagoth. The gigantic shape still loomed in the center of the courtyard, clawed hands clutching its face, blood like rubies welling between the taloned fingers, the blood of a god dropping to shatter like crystal on the marble beneath his feet, but even as the Cimmerian watched the form grew dimmer, less distinct. In gossamer outline Dagoth hung against the night sky. Abruptly he was gone, and with him the pain from Conan’s head.
Unsteadily the Cimmerian surveyed the courtyard. The priests were fled, and of the black-armored guards none remained save those he and Malak had slain. Zula crouched beside Jehnna, cradling the slender girl in her arms. “She collapsed,” the black woman told Conan, “when you tore out that horn. But it is only a sleep, I think. She will be well.”
“Hey, Conan,” Malak called. The small thief was propped against the marble pillar of the colonnade. Akiro, who moved as if he were one bruise from head to foot, was binding a cloth about Malak’s bloody thigh. “I took a spear, but we won. Hannuman’s Stones, man, we won!”
“Perhaps,” Conan said tiredly. He grasped the dragon amulet on his chest as if he would crush it. “Perhaps.”
 
F
rom an alabaster balcony of the vast marble palace that had once been Taramis’, Conan watched the sun rise from the far horizon. It was the second time he had watched a sunrise from that same spot. A day and a night to rest and think, to reach decisions. He had made his decisions, then given a few commands, and showed a handbreadth of steel when those commands were questioned.
“My Lord Conan,” said a servant behind him, “the Princess Jehnna b-begs your presence.” The woman blushed, flustered at stammering, flustered because a Zamoran noblewoman never begged. Most especially not a princess.
“I am not a lord,” Conan said, then quickly added, “Take me to the Princess Jehnna,” before she could become flustered further.
The tapestry-hung chamber to which he was led was meant for informal audiences, with a dais only one step high and an unadorned, high-backed chair of polished ebony for a throne. Jehnna looked well on it, he thought, in her robes of white silk. The others were much recovered from their ordeals as well, Malak surreptitiously fingering a golden bowl, Akiro looking impatient with a bundle of tightly rolled scrolls under his arm, Zula leaning on her staff near Jehnna’s throne as if she were a bodyguard.
“Conan,” Jehnna said brightly as he entered, “it has come. King Tiridates has invested me as Princess Royal of Zamora and confirmed me in Taramis’ estates.”
“I congratulate you,” he said, and she frowned at him doubtfully.
The frown cleared quickly though, and she said, “I have asked you all to come to me this morning because I have a favor to ask of each of you. You, first, Malak.” The small man jerked his hand from the bowl as if burned. “I ask you to remain here with me, Malak,” she went on, “living in my palace. Thus I will always be reminded that a man can be a fool, yet be brave and good.”
“Even my mother never called me good,” Malak said slowly. His eyes drifted to the bowl. “But I will stay in your palace. For a time.”
“Best to put a guard on him, then,” Akiro said drily, and grinned at the offended glare he got from Malak.
“You, also, Akiro,” Jehnna said, “must stay with me. You are a man of great wisdom, and I will need wise counsel in the days, the years, to come.”
“Impossible,” the wizard replied. “You have given me the Scrolls of Skelos, and some bushshamans on the Kothian border are carrying on vile practices that I have vowed to end.”
“I can put soldiers at your disposal to deal with the shamans,” Jehnna told him, then added slyly, “And Taramis gathered several rooms full of magical volumes and instruments which you would be free to study for as long as you remained here.”
“Soldiers,” Akiro mused. “I suppose soldiers could deal with such hedge-shamans as those. Ah, how many rooms full, exactly?”
“Many,” Jehnna laughed. “Zula, you must stay, as well. You have showed me that a woman need not be confined by others’ boundaries, but there is much yet to teach. The staff, for instance.”
The black woman sighed regretfully. “I cannot. I owe a life to Conan, and I must follow him until I can re—”
“No!” Conan said sharply. “The debt cannot be repaid in that way.”
“But—”
“It cannot, Zula. It has come to me that some debts cannot be repaid directly the one owed. Find another life to save, and I will be repaid by that.”
Zula nodded slowly before turning back to Jehnna. “I will stay, Jehnna, and gladly.”
“Conan,” Jehnna said, and hurried on when he opened his mouth. “Listen to me, Conan. Stay with me. Sit beside me.”
“I cannot,” Conan said gently.
“But why not? By all the gods, I want you, and I need you.”
“I live by my wits and my sword. Would you have me become a lapdog? ’Tis all I could be, here. I am not made for palaces and silks.”
“Then I will go with you,” she said, and stiffened when he laughed.
“The Turanians have a saying, Jehnna. The eagle does not run in the hills, the leopard does not fly in the sky. You would take to my life as ill as I would take to yours. Never a day but I must fight for my life or ride for it. That is the road I travel, and you cannot come with me.”
“But, Conan—”
“Fare you well, Jehnna, and all the gods grant you happiness.”
He turned his back on her then, and walked from the room. He thought he heard her call after him, but he would not look back or listen. As he had commanded, his horse waited, saddled, before the palace.
The sun was almost to its zenith by the time he reached the rough stone altar on the plains. The wind had swept dirt and sand against it, and he thought Malak might have some difficulty finding exactly where Amphrates’ jewels were buried, but otherwise nothing had changed.
Slipping the dragon amulet from about his neck, he laid it on the altar. From his pouch he took the vial Akiro had given him. So long ago, it seemed. Some debts could not be repaid to the one to whom they were owed.
“Fare you well, Valeria,” he said softly. And, scraping the seal from the vial, he drank.
Heat rushed along his limbs, and he squeezed his eyes shut, his horse dancing from an involuntary jerk on the reins. When he opened them again, the heat was gone. He found shards of a vial crushed in his fist, and wondered how they had come there. A glint of gold in the sun caught his eye. A pendant, he saw, in the shape of a dragon, resting atop a strange pile of stones. He bent from the saddle, but before his fingers touched the gold, he stopped. There was something, something he did not understand, that told him he should not take it. Sorcery, he decided.
Well, there was gold aplenty in Shadizar that was not sorcerous, and willing wenches to sit on his knee and help spend all he stole. With a laugh, he kicked his horse into a gallop for the city. Never once was he tempted to look back.

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