Conan The Fearless (10 page)

The tornado raged, ripping the houses and stables and temples asunder, shredding planks as if they were straw, driving the resulting straws like spears to impale all before them. A stick of wood penetrated a thick fence post in front of him as if the stick were steel and the post no more than butter. The whirlwind seemed to stretch, to try to reach its quarry, brushing aside obstacles as easily as a man brushes crumbs from a table. Such a force seemed unstoppable; indeed, nothing man-created could withstand it. After what seemed several lifetimes, the Cimmerian drew level with the wind-devil; several lifetimes later, he was past-and behind it.

The tornado seemed to stand still: it tried to move back along its path. Conan held his breath, watching. After a moment. one stretching very long, the funnel began to move again, away from the young Cimmerian and the others.

The storm had been defeated. In a moment the swirling clouds overhead lifted their dragging tail of destruction, and the whirlwind was reclaimed. Gone.

Conan saw the demon first. The wind died slowly after the clouds sucked their whirling maw skyward: gone the tornado might be, but not the rain and ordinary airs of the storm. Conan led Vitarius, Eldia, and Kinna across the path left by the wind-beast, a path much like a road cut through a forest. Following the whirlwind’s trail was the red demon, who saw Conan near the same instant he himself was spotted by the man. Despite the lashing rain, the Cimmerian could observe the demon’s face as it contorted in hatred. Conan drew his sword as the monster turned and began to sprint toward him.

“Vitarius!” This from Eldia, who pointed at the approaching devil.

The old magician turned and beheld the scene. Quickly, he laid one hand upon the head of the girl; the other hand he raised and pointed at the fast-arriving creature.

The demon skidded to a stop twenty paces away. “No,” he said loudly. “Score me not with your Fire’s tongue again.”

Vitarius hesitated. He looked at Conan.

The Cimmerian shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “He would speak, I think. Allow him.”

The demon drew himself up to his full impressive height. “I would have you know my name,” he said. “You are of the White, and so cannot use it against me even were I not bound to another. I am Djavul.”

Conan never lowered his blade a hair. “Why should we care, demon?” Rivulets ran down the sharp steel onto his hands.

“I am bound against you, wasp. but even were I not, your life is still forfeit under any circumstances. You owe me for this.” Djavul raised his arm and extended the stump toward Conan. “Because you have done what no other man has ever done in injuring me so, I would have you know the name of the one who sends you to the gray lands. Ah, but very slowly you shall make the transition, wasp.”

Vitarius raised his hand and aimed it at the demon, but Conan shook his head. “Nay, I say again, magician. I have my blade; I need not your protection. Let him come.” The young giant shifted his stance, spread his legs wider for balance, and gripped the wet leather handle of the broadsword tighter. “You have been stung once, Djavul of Hell; come, I shall sting you again.” Conan shook rain from his eyes.

Djavul looked from Conan toward Vitarius and Eldia, then back at the Cimmerian. “I think not, wasp.”

“The magician stays out of it,” Conan said inching forward slightly. Mud squished under his boots.

Djavul laughed. “Trusting the words of men has led more than one night-child into foolishness. This is not the time or place. But I will see you again wasp.” Djavul flicked a red-eyed glance back at Vitarius. “And you as well, White one.”

Abruptly, there came a clap of noise that rivaled the storm’s thunder, and Djavul vanished.

With the rain still falling upon them, Conan turned to glare at Vitarius. “It would seem that I have made an enemy for myself. “

“The fault is mine,” Vitarius said.

“It would seem you have made more than one enemy, Conan.” This from Kinna, who stood staring at the spot where Djavul had vanished.

The Cimmerian looked at her. “How so?”

“Those men who attacked us as we left the inn. They came for you, not for us. Recall what the patch-eyed man said?”

Conan brought the memory forth: There he be, boys. Come to save us a climb, l reckons. Kinna was right. But-why had they come for him? He had no enemies in this place save the hellspawn, Djavul. The devil wanted him, to be sure, but it seemed unlikely he would have sent human cutthroats to do his bidding. Who had sent them, then? It was a puzzle, a mystery, and Conan liked such things not.

“Perhaps we would be better served to get out of the rain,” Vitarius said. “We might sort things out just as well dry as wet.”

“Aye,” Conan said, but his disquiet remained.

Djuvula watched her brother rage at the beautiful man with the sword, smiling as she did so. Ah, yes, this one was surely the one she sought. Her gaze covered the barbarian lovingly, despite the rainy darkness. Such thick, smooth muscle he had, and such a wonderful rage simmered in his flashing blue eyes as he faced Djavul with only a sword. His heart would drive her Prince as no other heart had been able to move him. Yes.

Djavul vanished to Gehanna. Djuvula slid back into the cover of soaked hay bales, stacked head-high. It would not do for them to see her just yet. For a moment Djuvula’s mind warred with itself: so much to have! Here was the girl, the essence of Fire: the child glowed with it as a beacon lit to guide ships in fog-at least to one able to see such things, as a witch of power could. And the barbarian with the beautiful body, ah, how she wanted him!

Her smile increased. Perhaps she might allow this man that which she had given up on in other men, before she excised his mighty heart. Who knew? Such a barbarian might be possessed of vital energies beyond ordinary limits. She could … utilize him for a time before animating her Prince. Certainly he looked capable … .

Djuvula shook her head, as if to clear away the fantasy within by her action. She should think of the girl first. Then she laughed softly to herself. Why not slay two birds with the same stone? If she exercised care, she could have the girl and the man together. It would not be easy; the White Mage had demonstrated his power to Djavul before, and the witch could see the fear in her brother’s eyes as he faced the old man again. No, it would have to be carefully done, using guile instead of force. Even as she thought it, Djuvula began to think of a plan. Yes, a plan that would allow her to use her very special talents … .

Senator Lemparius shed his wet clothes and went directly to the hot bath- kept ever so, awaiting his pleasure. As he sank into the water the warm vapors swirled around his head, bringing the scent of crushed mint to his nostrils. Ah …

One of the deputies scurried into the room, bowing as he came. “My lord Senator,” the man began, “a terrible windstorm has wreaked much damage to the city, killing dozens of citizens.”

Lemparius shrugged within the womb of blissful heat. “So? What is done is done; why disturb my bath for such?”

The deputy appeared undisturbed by the senator’s lack of concern. “The man who brought this news awaits without, to speak to you of a matter related to this disaster.”

“Send him away.” Lemparius managed to raise one hand languidly to wave at the deputy; vapor rose from his skin into the cooler air of the bathchamber.

“As you command, my lord. The man would have you know his name, however. He calls himself Loganaro.”

Senator Lemparius smiled. “Ah, there is a beast of a different strain. Admit him.”

As the deputy left, Lemparius sank yet deeper into the perfumed water, until his nose was barely clear of the liquid. A shame cats hated the water so.

Loganaro entered the chamber. The man was muddy and bedraggled, his face filled with a mix of ratlike cunning and fear.

The senator bobbed up slightly, clearing his mouth. “Where have you deposited my barbarian? You have collected him by this time?”

“Honored Senator, there was a complication-“

“Complication? Speak not of such! Complications in my service most often lead to ultimate simplification, if you understand my meaning?”

The fat man swallowed. Water still dripped from his gray hair. “It-it could not have been foreseen, lord! A windstorm arose even as my minions collected the barbarian. The inn containing them was demolished, smashed, and scattered; there was nothing to be done!”

Lemparius sat up in the bath and pointed one sharp fingernail at his agent. “I hope you are not telling me my prey was sucked up by a storm.”

“N-nay, Honored Senator. My … collectors were; somehow, the Cimmerian and his friends escaped.”

“Where, then, are they?”

“My agent follows them currently; he will report back to me as soon as they alight.”

Lemparius relaxed a little, sinking into the massive tub. “Then I see no complication. Merely a delay. As soon as this man settles; you shall simply … retrieve him, eh? Only take care that this Cimmerian stays within your grasp, Loganaro mine. Otherwise there is that simplification of which I spoke. A state of being ever so much more simple than one so complex as, say, living and breathing.”

Loganaro swallowed and nodded, his damp pale face going more ghostly.

When he had gone, Lemparius smiled. He took a deep breath and sank beneath the water, staying long enough for the warmth to caress his closed eyes and soak his hair. When he came up for air, he was still smiling.

Castle Slott rang with the shouts of its master. “Set curse them all! By the Eternal Fires, I will have her!”

The three children iron-linked to the cold wall shrank back, as if they could sink into the stone away from Sovartus’s wrath.

Sovartus flashed a grimace filled with hatred at the three, concentrating his gaze particularly upon Luft, the boy of Air. “You resisted me somehow,” the magician said. “Else that wind would have drawn my quarry up and delivered her to me. I shall remember this, never fear.”

With that, Sovartus stalked away from the three, his mind whirling with schemes for achievement of his goal. He muttered to himself as he moved. “Where rests my demon? If he cannot win the girl, he can at least find her and watch her! And what have I done with my casting sphere? Ah, may the Black-Souled Ones take everyone!”

The place was a shed for storage of dried meat and fish, hardly fit accommodations for men; still, it was dry under the solid roof. Crowded into the small cleared space beneath hanging racks of jerky and smoked fish, Conan stood glowering at Vitarius. The old man spoke.

“I cannot say who sent the assassins, if that was their intent. Because of the ropes they carried, I suspect the unfortunates intended to capture you.”

Conan shook his head, fanning his damp black hair away from his face. “There is no sense to that,” he said. “I am unknown in these parts; no one would have reason to hold me.”

“An old enemy, perhaps?” Kinna said this as she tried to light a stub of candle from a flint-and-steel she worked. Sparks flared in the shed, falling like shooting stars.

“Most of my enemies lie dead,” Conan said. “None who live would bother to follow me this far from where I earned their enmity.”

One of Kinna’s sparks touched the greasy wick of the candle, appeared to smolder for a moment, then went out. Conan thought she uttered a curse, but her voice was too quiet for even his ears to understand what she said.

Almost absently. Eldia raised her finger and pointed it at the candle. The stub of wax and string lit seemingly of its own accord, casting shadows to the walls and ceiling of the shed.

“So,” Kinna said, looking away from the candle at Conan, “what will you do now?”

He considered his choices. He still cared little for practitioners of sorcerous arts. White. Black, or any other color: a quick exit from this city would serve his purposes well enough. Numalia beckoned, and there was certainly no profit to be had in staying here to contest with demons and magicians, not to mention the unknown master of the cutthroats dispatched by wind and blade to their destinies.

On the other hand, Conan felt a perverse stubbornness rising in him, a feeling of rage at being threatened. No matter that the hellish demon had reason for anger, nor that the master of the cutthroats now had similar reasons-his minions were scattered meat, no more. Conan had been minding his own affairs and had been provoked; such provocation deserved no less than he had given. Likely a prudent man would interpret such attacks as a sign from his patron gods to travel elsewhere at a goodly pace. Cimmerians were not, however, always prudent. Conan’s anger at those responsible for causing him such discomfort was great; those who held Crom as their deity could not be faint-hearted. Crom was a hard god who offered little to his followers: he was savage, gloomy and dealt in death; more, Crom hated weaklings and cowards above all. Crom dispensed courage and will, taken in with life’s first breath from out the womb. A man did not honor Crom by running from danger, no matter how great.

Conan stared at the trio gathered around the light of the single candle. He was bound for Nemedia, to be certain, and he did not like magicians, but there were matters to be attended to here.

The others waited for Conan to speak. At last, he did.

“It seems as if we are allies for a time,” the Cimmerian said. his voice nearly a growl. He liked it little, but there it stood. He focused on Vitarius. “I trust you have some plan for defeating our mutual enemy?”

The old mage smiled. “Of a sort, Conan. Of a sort.”

Loganaro found himself beset by a large problem: Where was the barbarian? That he had lied to Lemparius bothered Loganaro not a whit; he had seen Conan flee the destroyed inn, even as he had made good his own escape. Unfortunately, there had been no agents following the Cimmerian in the midst of that tempest.

Such a lie was simply an elementary precaution Loganaro had long since learned to take when dealing with powerful men. Conan had somehow escaped and still lived; therefore, he could be located, in time. If, however, Lemparius had suspected that Loganaro had lost the barbarian, events might have taken a decided turn in the direction of … simplification, a term that left no doubt in Loganaro’s mind as to its meaning.