Conan The Fearless (17 page)

“What are you about, Conan?” This from Kinna, scratching a spot behind her horse’s ear.

“Someone flits along our path,” he said. “Hidden now in the wood. I would know who he is, and why he follows us.”

Vitarius raised one gnarled hand. “Put away your blade, Conan. You shall likely see many strange shapes dancing in these woods. For the most part, the inhabitants offer no harm, only curiosity. It would be better to avoid antagonizing them.”

Conan lowered the point of his blade. Perhaps the old man was right. It cost him nothing to allow the wood-dwellers to watch him, so long as they kept their distance. And they would reach the plain by nightfall.

They came to the stream Vitarius remembered within an hour. Fording the rill would be another matter, however. A huge tree had fallen across the path leading to the brook, very near the edge of the water’s flux. A man could clamber over the thick-boled trunk easily enough, but a horse could not. They could go around the great length of the tree, of course, but that, too, presented problems.

“This is the only shallow spot for a mile in either direction,” Vitarius said. “From deposits built up by the bank’s curve. A dozen feet on either side, the bank drops sharply. We shall lose time by detouring.”

“Can’t we cut through the tree?” Eldia said.

Conan laughed. “Aye, little sister, we could-if we had axes or long saws. Even so, it would take two strong men the better part of a day to move enough wood for a horse’s passage. With my sword I might manage it in a month.”

“I could burn it,” Eldia said.

Conan looked at the girl, then at the old wizard.

The old man shook his head. “Nay. A natural fire would take days to burn this much wood. And were we to use enough of the Power to do it faster, we might draw unwanted attention to ourselves. There are things attracted to high energies, things I would rather not meet in these woods.”

“What shall we do, then?”

“Go around,” Conan said. “Unless you are willing to trust the swimming abilities of these horses, which I am loath to do. If we are only a mile from another crossing, we can return to the path opposite the stream within an hour or two, even allowing for the slower going in the woods.”

“That means we must spend the night in the forest,” Vitarius said.

Conan shrugged. There was nothing to be done. But as they passed the root ball of the fallen tree, he noticed the freshness of the moist soil still clinging to the roots. The giant tree had fallen but recently. That seemed somewhat odd, since there had been no storms since they’d left Mornstadinos. .

A thirty-minute ride brought the group to a spot where a sandbar could be seen stretching across the stream. The bed was wide, but the water flowed no faster than at the ford by the downed tree. “Here,” Conan said. He directed his horse toward the water’s edge.

“Conan, wait,” Vitarius said. He pointed across the river at a tree that grew near the bank.

Conan looked at the tree. It was oddly shaped, looking more like a thorn bush than a tree for all that it was ten times the height of a man. And the thorns were fair-sized as well. There was some kind of litter on the ground around its base. The Cimmerian squinted, and saw what the litter was: bones. The skeletons of at least half a score animals ranging in size from muskrats to something as large as a big dog. What-?

Vitarius dismounted and removed an empty wineskin from his gear. He waddled to the water’s edge and immersed the skin in the flowing stream. Bubbles rose to the surface.

“What are you doing’?” Conan asked.

Vitarius rose and capped the skin. He had trouble holding the heavy bag up. “Can you throw this across the stream to the base of the tree?”

The Cimmerian dismounted and hefted the water-filled bag. “I think so,” Conan said. “Why?”

“Do it, and see.”

Conan looked at the old wizard. Had the man lost his senses? He shook his head, but waved Vitarius back to give himself room to swing the bag. What was the old man trying to do? Likely the bag would burst on impact, giving the thorn tree a free drink of water, nothing else.

It was, perhaps, fifteen paces from where Conan stood to the tree. He whirled the rough goatskin around his head, flexing the sinews of his arm and shoulder. With a final hard spin Conan heaved the water container.

The skin seemed to move slowly, almost like a falling leaf. It hit the ground a few feet from the tree, and skidded toward the trunk. The seamstress who had stitched the bag deserved credit, for the bag held firm.

The next thing to happen did not seem to be slow at all. Three branches snapped downward from the tree, as if they were whips plaited of bullock leather. A dozen finger-long thorns stabbed the goatskin like tiny spears, and water sprayed in sudden fountains. When the bag lay drained of its contents moments later, the tree branches snapped away as quickly as they had descended.

Conan turned to Vitarius. There were startled expressions on the faces of Eldia and Kinna; he hoped his own face was less revealing.

“I mentioned that the flora in these woods was strange. Behold the Kiss-of-the-Lance tree-hardly one you would wish to pass unsuspecting, eh?”

“I see how the bones come to be there,” Conan said.

“Movement over the root system triggers the branches to attack. The tree feeds on blood and other fluids from its victims, absorbed by the same roots. The bigger the prey, the more branches it uses to hold the victim.”

Kinna shuddered.

“How are we to pass it?” Conan asked.

Vitarius turned to face Eldia. “Child?”

The girl nodded. She dug her heels into the side of her horse and started toward the sandbar.

Conan reached for her mount’s reins as Kinna said, “No!”

Vitarius said, “She is in no danger! Let her go.”

Conan looked up at the mounted child. She nodded. “He is right. I shall be safe.”

Conan released the animal’s reins.

“Conan! No!” Kinna urged her own mount forward, but Vitarius blocked her path. She had to pull up her horse or run the old man down. “She is a child! You saw what that-that-thing did to the goatskin-!”

The trio turned to watch as Eldia reached the opposite shore. With the first touch of her animal’s hooves upon the ground, the branches of the tree quivered-and burst into flame! The whiplike branches, encrusted with long thorns, waved frantically, but this only served to fan the flames higher. The burning wood crackled like fat dropped into a cooking fire.

Vitarius pulled himself up onto his horse. “A small fire, not much power. I do not think it will notice us now.”

The detour cost them nearly two hours. When the trail became too dark to see, Conan halted the party. He turned to Vitarius, who shook his head. “We are still better than an hour from the edge of the wood. Too dangerous at night.”

“Then we camp here,” Conan said.

Djavul crouched behind the bole of a tree, watching. He did not doubt that the White One would set his magical wards again. The way to avoid being detected by the spell was simple enough: He must be inside the perimeter when the mage cast the spell. On the road before, or in the plains after, that would be impossible without being seen. But here in the heavy woods it could be done if done carefully. That was why he had felled the tree. His quarry, the girl and the barbarian, were delayed long enough so that night caught them in the forest.

Moving with a stealth he was unused to, Djavul edged closer to the path. He was, he knew, nearly invisible in the darkness, but he still took care to move as quietly as possible. It was hard; demons had little reason to learn how to creep. This time, however, it was important that he avoid being detected. He was careful. No sticks snapped under his massive horny feet; no branches ruffled loudly as he passed. It took him nearly an hour to move but a few paces. When he was done, Djavul was within two leaps of the man he had sworn to kill.

“My spell is cast,” Vitarius said. “We can rest easily now.”

Conan nodded, but he still distrusted any form of magic. He laid his bare blade next to where Kinna had placed their blankets. When the young woman came into his embrace under the wool shelter, however, Conan ceased to think about the dangers of the forest.

It was smell, not sight or sound, that awakened him. The stink of hellspawn filled his sensitive nostrils. Instantly, he knew that the demon he had faced before had somehow found them. Conan’s eyes flicked open, and he reached for his sword.

“Looking for something?” The metallic grate of the demon’s voice was close, almost on top of Conan. He rolled from the blankets and came up, to see the giant red demon standing not two paces away. And the demon held his sword.

Behind him Kinna stirred. “Conan? What is it?”

Djavul grinned at the Cimmerian. He mocked the woman in his deep rasp: ” ‘Conan? What is it?’ ” Djavul tossed Conan’s sword into the night. The fire had burned down some, but there was still sufficient light for Conan to see his enemy well. “I am death, Conan, come for you. Not immediately, of course. I have some little entertainments for you first. “

Kinna sat up. Conan gave her only the smallest bit of his attention. His sword was gone, but there was the curved knife of Lemparius back near his blankets. If he could get to it-

“Conan! Where is Eldia?”

Conan spared a glance at the girl’s blankets. Empty.

Djavul’s toothy grin increased. “I have moved her. It would not do that she and the old White One should splash her Fire upon me before I have a chance to finish my business.”

Vitarius stirred. “What is-oh!”

“Come, wasp,” Djavul said. “Grapple with me so that I might tear an arm or leg from you for my breakfast.”

Conan dived for his blankets and seized the knife. He rolled up, clutching the steel fang, to face Djavul.

“Your stinger has shrunk, wasp.” Djavul laughed. “Come and match it against my one hand.” Djavul’s nails flicked back and forth in the firelight like small daggers.

Conan edged forward.

Djavul leaped. He grabbed Conan’s knife hand with his own remaining hand and wrapped his other arm around the barbarian’s back. Conan felt the stump of the demon’s wrist batter his spine. He drove his knee at the demon’s groin, but hit the rock-solid flesh of a mighty red thigh instead. The two tumbled to the ground, locked together like wrestlers.

As strong as he was, Conan felt like a child in Djavul’s embrace. The knife was wrenched from his grip and flew into the darkness. A moment later Djavul tossed the big youth away as a man might toss a loaf of moldy bread. The Cimmerian hit the ground hard, his wind knocked from him.

Djavul leaped the intervening distance to tower over Conan. “You make it too easy, wasp!” He bent over, reaching for Conan.

The Cimmerian saw Kinna then, swinging her staff. The heavy wood, as thick as her wrist, whistled in the night air. She smashed the rod across Djavul’s back at kidney level. The brass-bound staff splintered and cracked, so hard did she wield it. The impact brought a grunt from Djavul, but only staggered him. He turned, swinging his open hand. He hit Kinna on the shoulder, knocking her flying.

Conan regained his feet. At the same instant he heard Vitarius yell. “Conan! Catch!” The white-haired wizard tossed something at the younger man.

Conan twisted, expecting to see a knife glittering in the firelight. What he snatched from the air was no blade, however. It felt like grease over crackly parchment, both stretched over wood. It had several points on one end, like small daggers. In an instant Conan recognized what he held: Djavul’s severed hand!

Then the demon spun to face Conan. Firelight reflected from his white fangs, and slime dripped from his open mouth as he reached to grab the man. He must have expected the man to back away, but the Cimmerian did the opposite. He lunged at the monster. He had one chance, and he used it. He gripped the severed hand like a sword, and, with all his strength, he jabbed the taloned fingers at the face of their former owner.

The partially mummified fingers were spread. The forefinger and middle finger stabbed into Djavul’s eyes and sank in to the third joint.

The demon screamed, a sound that shattered the night air. Conan’s ears rang, deafened, as Djavul staggered back, clutching his dead hand with his remaining live one. He tugged at the instrument of his torture, but it now seemed a part of his face, immovable. The demon dropped to his knees, still screaming. A strange crackling orange light surrounded his face. As Conan watched, the light expanded to cover Djavul’s entire form. When the light had bathed the demon from head to toe, it stopped abruptly, winking out. Djavul fell over backward. His body ran like heated wax, losing form, then bubbled into a puddle of redness that spread over the fir needles, until, at last, nothing remained of him save a damp spot on the ground.

In Castle Slott a pentagram sketched exactingly upon the flagstones of a certain chamber suddenly flared into orange flame. When the flames vanished, so did the pentagram.

In Mornstadinos, in her bedchamber, Djuvula the Witch bolted upright from a dreamless sleep, her eyes wide. She screamed, but it was a wasted effort. Her brother was no more.

By the light of the rekindled fire Conan sat with Vitarius, Kinna, and the returned Eldia. The girl had been moved only a short way from the place where she had lain-still within the warding spell set by the old magician.

“He must have been very close to us when I cast the enchantment,” Vitarius said. “The magic has not been disturbed. “

More than Conan could say for himself. “What happened to him?” He glanced toward the damp spot that had been Djavul.

“Because I am of the White, the demon knew I could not use his name against him. But flesh of his flesh was, as it turned out, a more potent weapon.”

Kinna said, “How did you know what it would do?”

Vitarius shook his head. “I did not know. The White Square does not teach such things. But I had heard rumors; one learns something of the opposition if one lives long enough. I came across an old parchment some years ago, a page from some larger work that had been mostly burned by some wise soul. On this page it was written that flesh taken from a demon will rejoin its owner, can it be brought into contact with him again. Had Conan fitted the dead hand back to its wrist, I suspect the demon would once again have become whole. Apparently, however, the flesh of demons is not very discriminating-the hand adhered to the first portion of the devil it touched.”