Conan The Fearless (15 page)

Conan gained the door, jerked it open, and started through the portal. The cat made a desperate rush then, slashing at the Cimmerian’s leg with its right paw. Conan snapped the point of the sicklelike weapon down hard, and buried the tip in the panther’s foreleg. The unnatural creature screamed and jerked its foreleg back, laying open the tawny hide in a crimson gash. The panther retreated, screaming continuously, and Conan slammed the brass-bound door upon the sight. He saw nothing to stay him in the hallway in which he found himself, and so he fled, running like a man pursued by demons.

He did not look back.

Lemparius had departed to rally his minions. Djuvula sat alone in her chamber, staring at the inert form of her Prince. That she was furious did not begin to describe her black rage. Lemparius was a fool to think his wereman cloak would enhance either his anatomy or performance to majuscule proportions; worse, he had allowed her beautiful barbarian to escape! He would pay for that.

Then there stood the matter of Loganaro, free agent and betrayer. His proffered barbarian and Conan were one and the same, and the fat toad had sold him to her would-be consort. Now, there was a man who was going to pay for a moron’s mistake, and do it twisting slowly as well. The man who had sliced the hand from her demon-brother was without her grasp, and Djuvula needed small excuse to seek a target upon which to spend her anger.

Purple haze smote the air of her chamber within a yellow flash of tainted light. Well, well. Look who chose that moment to arrive.

Djavul bent to avoid hitting his head upon the ceiling.

“Sister,” he grated, “I sense that you have captured my quarry.”

Djavula laughed. “Oh, ‘tis hardly better you come late than never, half-brother.”

“Speak clearly, woman!”

“He is escaped, your hand-chopping barbarian. Due to an inept senator who fancies himself a kind of master swordsman.”

“I shall have his skull for a soup bowl!”

“Nay, brother, he belongs to me. And I shall have little trouble in locating our mutual prey, for I have his clothes and sword at my beck. I will cast the proper spells for you to locate him exactly-provided you return him to me before you exact your vengeance.”

“You would bargain with me, sister?”

“Nay, I say again. You may do what you will with the man, so long as I can remove his heart from his still-living form. “

Djavul laughed. “So, you still seek to make yourself a new toy?” The demon nodded toward the form on Djuvula’s bed. “I could easily summon better from the Depths for you, sister. Why, I would even undertake your pleasures myself-“

“Thank you, no,” Djuvula said. “I’ll not put myself into the thrall of a demon-lover, no matter how adept. The price would be more than I would care to pay.”

Djavul chuckled. “Aye, were I you, I, too, would likely refuse such an offer; still, there is no harm in trying, is there?”

“I would expect no less of you, brother. But bide a moment; I have spells to produce … .”

Vitarius looked up, startled, as Conan stormed into the room. “Where have you been?” the old mage asked. “We expected you this morning-“

“Never mind, I shall explain later. Are we supplied? Ready to travel?”

“Aye. Eldia and her sister are waiting at the provisioner’s; I thought it best to wait here for you-“

“Then let us depart, Vitarius. Now.”

“You have acquired sufficient funds … ?”

“We must be on our way, old man. No time to tarry. There was some … trouble during my venture. It would be best to clear the city gates quickly.”

There were four horses, saddles of fair quality for each animal, and a pack beast tethered at a post in one of the twisted alleys Conan was coming to hate. Eldia and Kinna stood nearby. The older sister had obtained a thick brassbound staff, her own height in length. It was Kinna who spoke first when she saw the Cimmerian and the White magician approaching.

“Conan! Where are your clothes?”

“I was hot,” he replied.

The woman seemed as if she might inquire further, but apparently thought better of it, for she spoke no more. Conan strode past her and into the provisioner’s shop.

The owner of the establishment was a swarthy man of small frame, with a gold tooth gleaming in the rays of the afternoon sun, allowed inside by a large window. He exposed the tooth hesitantly at the sight of the big man moving toward him.

“I need a sword,” Conan said, “something with heft and length. And a cloak.”

“I have a stock of both,” Gold-tooth replied. “And breeches, tunics, boots-“

“Aye, boots.”

The proprietor led Conan to a second room, filled with supplies. Conan tried on several pairs of boots, but found none large enough. He settled for some thick-soled sandals with leg lashings; they would do well enough, since he was riding and not walking. A well-spun cloak, dyed indigo, was draped over his shoulders, and he nodded. It would suffice. Finally, he chose a sword. He found a double-edged blade as long as the distance between his outstretched fingertips and the middle of his chest. The handle was more ornate than he liked, but the steel seemed sound, and the edges were of sufficient sharpness to shave hair from the back of one hand. He would rather have had his own broadsword, but this one would have to do.

“A wise choice,” Gold-tooth said. “The steel is of the many-folds variety, brought all the way from Turan.”

“Do you know gems?” Conan asked.

“Why, certainly. I am passing familiar with-“

“Examine this, then.” Conan dug into his belt purse and produced the single emerald remaining from the booty he had attempted to remove from Lemparius’s household. He flipped the stone at the man’s face.

Gold-tooth deftly picked the jewel from the air. He held it up to the light and squinted at the emerald. From his jacket he produced an eyeglass, and used the instrument to peer at the stone. Conan saw the man’s eyes widen at the sight of the emerald.

“Well?”

“It-ah-has some value,” Gold-tooth said. From the way he spoke, Conan thought the man’s mouth had gone dry.

“Enough to pay for our supplies?”

The merchant started to smile, stopped, then turned the expression into a frown. “It-ah-would go some way as payment, yes. Perhaps … half, I would think.”

Conan had dealt with men such as Gold-tooth; they would lie to their own mothers without a second thought, especially when matters of money were in question.

“In Zamora,” Conan began, “such a precious stone would buy a dozen horses and five times the supplies you have furnished.”

Gold-tooth’s eyes narrowed, but his voice remained bland. “Perhaps it is so; however, this is not Zamora. Perhaps I might allow three-quarters of the debt for this-ah-bauble.”

Conan shook his head, and his blue eyes sent a penetrating gaze at the small man. “I have not the time to play bargaining games with you. You shall have the stone for our supplies; speak no more about it.”

“Oh? It seems to me that I hold the upper hand here, outlander. I can choose not to trade.” Despite his words, he maintained his hold on the emerald, greed showing in his face.

Conan pulled his new sword from its stiff leathern sheath and aimed the point of the blade at Gold-tooth’s throat. “No more of your unctuous babble, merchant! Accept the trade and live. Refuse at your peril!”

“I-ah-have-ah-men I can call!” Gold-tooth’s voice trembled. He licked his lips, flashing his tooth at Conan.

“Do,” Conan said. “Such would make my day. A thick coat of blood upon your stock would no doubt improve its appearance. Call your men.”

Gold-tooth swallowed dryly, and licked his lips again. “I find that-ah-I am willing to accept the loss on-ah-the trade as you suggest-in the interests of maintaining-ah-good market relations.”

Conan grinned. “I thought you might see it so.” He turned and walked quickly from the room, his cape flaring behind him. He found Vitarius and the sisters awaiting him.

“Mount,” Conan commanded. “It is time we departed this rabbit warren.”

Lemparius waved his left arm at his men and yelled loudly in his anger. “Fifty solons to the man who brings me the barbar! Breathing. And slow torture to the man responsible if the barbarian dies before I see him again.”

A hundred men stared at the senator, nodding. None spoke.

“Go. I will not have him escape!”

The deputies left the courtyard at a double-time pace, accompanied by Lemparius’s curses. His left fist clenched tightly, but not his right-that arm was securely bandaged and strapped to his body, protection for the wound which ran from elbow to wrist in length, and to the bone. Had such a wound been inflicted by an ordinary weapon, it would already have been healed; since the cut was made by his own saber-tooth knife, which bore a cat-enchantment, it would fare as any normal man’s surgery.

Damn the barbarian! He would learn the meaning of pain once he was returned. Djuvula would have no need of his heart, of that Lemparius was certain-he could fill her needs. But Conan owed him for this injury.

Loganaro was close to panic. The barbarian and his party were leaving, an idiot could see that. How was he to stop them? The thought of facing Lemparius made the fat agent shudder. On the other hand, the idea of trying to stand against the truculent barbarian also had little appeal.

The four mounted their horses as Loganaro watched. By Yama, he could not simply allow them to leave! He must delay them somehow, must invent some story that would keep the barbarian in Mornstadinos until he could gather help.

With that thought Loganaro ran forward, mind working frantically. “Sir,” he called, “delay a moment! You remember me, don’t you? I am Loganaro, we met in the village-” He stopped and gawked at Conan. Two things he noticed at once: The barbarian was pulling his sword-a new blade, from its look-and at his side he carried Lemparius’s curved knife, sheathless, through his belt!

Conan stared at the fat man, intending to behead him. But there were people about; somebody might call the deputies, and he had enough to worry about as it was. Then a thought struck him, and Conan smiled. He sheathed his sword, recalling the conversation he had overheard while pretending to be unconscious in the witch’s bedchamber. “Nay, fat one,” he said, “I shall not spit your carcass on my new steel. That would be too merciful.”

“Y-young sir, what can you mean? I have done you no harm-“

“Through no lack of trying, I’ll wager. I see you recognize the knife I carry.”

“N-n-no, I’ve never seen it-“

“Its former owner is your master, cur. I speak of Lemparius, senator and werepanther.”

“Werepanther?”

“Ah, you did not know this? No matter. He is not your problem, doomed one. There is a woman, a witch-“

“Djuvula!”

Conan smiled. “Aye, you know of her too. Well that you should, for she wishes to make tripe of your guts.”

“But-but-why?”

“Your former master gave you to her, dog. It seems the lady does not care for your manner of changing alliances. In trying to serve two, you have been abandoned by both.”

“No!”

Conan laughed again. “Were I you, fat one, I would relocate my business to another city. Or another country. And quickly.”

Loganaro turned and sprinted away, uttering oaths as he ran. It was one of the funniest things Conan had ever seen, and he laughed so hard, he nearly was unhorsed.

Vitarius said, “I was not aware you knew such a subdolous weasel as Loganaro, Conan.”

Conan’s laugh dwindled to a chuckle. “Only in passing,” he said.

Vitarius led the way through the alleys and back streets toward the west gate of Mornstadinos. Eldia and Kinna followed close behind, and Conan brought up the rear, watching carefully for signs of pursuit. He saw a group of five deputies once, but they were at cross-angles to his path, moving away. Good.

The west gate was unguarded, save by a single man. This one leaned on his pike, engaged in ribald conversation with a dark short-haired trull with a heavily painted face. As Conan rode past the sentry, the man, intent on arguing over the price the woman was asking for her favors, did not even look up.

The sun was past the mid-afternoon point when the four rode unhampered from Mornstadinos. Conan could hardly recall any place he was happier to leave. Weighed against the double-dealing and intrigue of the citizens he had encountered in Mornstadinos, an attack upon a wizard in a magically fortified castle seemed almost an insignificant task.

Several hours out of Mornstadinos the party of four stopped to allow their horses rest. Aside from themselves Conan had seen no other travelers. The Corinthian road was empty.

Vitarius drank from a goatskin, splashing wine into his mouth until it dribbled down his chin. He passed the skin to Conan, who filled his own mouth several times, swallowing noisily.

Eldia and Kinna moved toward a thick stand of bushes. Conan called to them. “Careful.”

Kinna waved the staff she carried. “Do not worry. I can attend to the rabbits and ground monks with this.”

Vitarius said. “You had a story you were going to tell.”

“Aye.” Conan began to speak of his recent adventures. Shortly after he had started, the women returned.

When he finished, Kinna shook her head. “It seems you live a life charmed of the gods, Conan.”

“Perhaps. I do not depend upon gods, however.” He patted his sword with one callused hand. “Steel is much better. A good sword acts as a man demands and is as good as the man who wields it. Gods act for their own reasons, and cannot be depended upon in times of danger.”

“Think you that the senator will send pursuit?” Eldia asked.

The Cimmerian shrugged. “Possible. He has no love for me. If the whoremonger at the gate recalls our passage, Lemparius might well dispatch his minions our way. At the crest of the last hill I looked back, but saw no dust along the road. If we are pursued, we have several hours on them.”

Kinna nodded.

“That will likely be the least of our worries,” Vitarius said. “Sovartus has set certain … wards upon the roads leading away from Mornstadinos. We are five days ride from Dodligia Plain, upon which his foul castle rests. Before then we must pass whatever guards he has posted-not to mention the Bloddolk Forest.”