Conan The Freelance (11 page)

Came the glimmerings of dawn and Kleg’s step faltered somewhat; despite his great strength, his flight had tired him more than a little. His goal lay near at hand, though. The stark palisade of the village of Karatas rose to meet the morning’s mists just ahead.

To the east of the settlement stood what appeared to be a rocky hill. Upon closer examination, the hill proved to be a single, huge chunk of rock, all of a piece, and the rays of the sleepy sun revealed this eminent boulder’s single hue to be a deep and rich jet. Against the greenery of trees and grass, the black rock stood out like a blotch of dark paint on an albino’s pale arm. The village, Kleg knew, had been named after this geologic phenomenon, for the name Karatas itself meant “black rock” in the tongue of those who had first settled the area.

Kleg hurried toward the towering wall of wood ahead of him. The magic talisman bumped his waist within the pouch he wore. Nearly safe, he was. True, one could enter the crater lake anywhere and make one’s way through the Sargasso, but the unexplored weed was fraught with dangers. The safest tunnels through the growth began where the village met the water; besides, once inside the city, the lizard men’s pursuit would end. The gates might be opened for a single Pili, but certainly not for an armed force of them; the administrators of Karatas wanted no more trouble than already existed within the protective walls. The Pili would know as much.

The wall loomed. Kleg came to stand under the guard post mounted over the smaller of the two gates on the road leading to the village.

“Ho, the gate watch!”

A fat, bearded man helmeted in a bowllike morion leaned out to look down at Kleg. “Aye, ‘tis the watch. Who calls?”

“Kleg, Prime servant of He Who Creates, seeking entrance.”

The guard moved back from sight, and the long bronze lever that controlled the smaller door creaked in its channel. An instant later, the iron-backed door swung outward on its thick, oiled hinges. “Enter, Prime.”

Kleg smiled as he strode into the village. They knew him here, and they wanted no trouble with his master, upon whose sufferance they existed. He Who Creates could, if He so desired, magically wipe the village away as easily as a selkie crushing a water bug, and all who resided therein surely must know it.

When the gate swung shut behind him, Kleg felt a sense of relief. He would find a place to eat and to rest before going into the Sargasso. He could afford to spend a day recuperating, now that the end of his quest had drawn so near.

There was an oasis in the desert across which Conan, Cheen, and the others trekked, a splash of greenery that edged a spring-fed pond, and it was to this oasis that the group made their way under the oppressive heat of the sun.

As the men and women of the Tree Folk’s party filled their water skins and rested in the cool shade, Cheen took Conan aside.

“Much as I would like to continue, we should rest and wait here until evening,” she said. “The desert drinks the life of those who seek to cross this part of it on foot during the day.”

Conan nodded. There had been no sign of pursuit from the Pili, and desert travel was best done under the cool moon and not her hotter brother, the sun.

“Come and explain what Hok spoke of, regarding the Queen of the Pili,” Cheen said, laying her hand on Conan’s arm. “There is a quiet place, just over there, beneath the shade of that flowered bush, where we will not be disturbed.”

Conan looked at the swelling of Cheen’s breasts under the thin shirt she wore, at the tightness of her muscles, and at the bright smile she gave him. He became aware that it was very possible his explanation would be accompanied by a demonstration, and despite his resolve about women, at the moment the idea was not unpleasant in the least.

“Aye,” he said, returning her smile.

Thayla’s tracker found the place where Conan and the boy had been joined by others, so that their party now matched the queen’s own number. The Pili set off to follow, but shortly thereafter, a desert wind began to blow, stirring the sand and dust, and within minutes,

the tracks of the escapees and their new companions were completely obscured.

Thayla led her troop across the desert, a mixture of fear and anger simmering in her hot blood. How dare that man leave before she was done with him? And what would happen to her if ever her husband should stumble onto Conan?

One of her troopers made to approach the queen. “Should we not go to the oasis, milady?”

The queen shook her head. “We are Pili, we can travel without water.”

“Beg your pardon, milady, that is true, we can, but the humans might-“

“We will pass the oasis,” she. said, “and perhaps in so doing get ahead of them, where we can set a trap.”

“Ah,” the trooper said. “Wise.”

Thayla did not bother to reply to his flattery. Were she wise, they would be feasting on cooked manflesh in the mound and not chasing their dinner across the desert.

From the castle that rode the Sargasso, Dimma sent forth a magical call. There responded to the command a number of unnatural beings who owed their existence to earlier magicks of the Mist Mage: skreeches arose from the lake’s depths, joined by the eels of power, and finally, the gigantic and omnivorous Kralix.

The skreeches were half-fish and half something that resembled women, and in the air, their voices in concert produced a hypnotic drone that drew those who heard as spilled honey draws flies. A man unwary enough to fall into the clutches of a skreech would find himself dead in short order, for the skreeches drank blood. A dozen of them swam up to answer their master’s call.

The eels of power attained at full growth the length of a tall man and the thickness of his arm, and each bore within its body an energy akin to the lightning from a storm. To touch an eel in the water was to die stunned and blasted. A score of the eels came to the summons.

The Kralix was one of a kind. It was twice the size of an ox, its skin a glistening, mottled gray green, and it would eat plant or flesh with equal interest, and could swim the waters or stalk the land with nearly equal ability. It most resembled a thing that might have been born of wolf, bear, and toad, had the three somehow mated together, and its curse was-that it felt neither pain nor joy. All the Kralix ever felt was hunger, and unleashed, it would eat itself into a stupor. It was an amphibian nightmare, the Kralix, and its power was unequaled by any beast in the lake and few that had ever walked the land.

Dimma sent these minions into the weed, toward the village that perched on the rim of the water. “Go,” he said. “Go and find my Prime selkie and escort him to me.”

Obediently, they went.

Dimma floated in his throne room. The skreeches and eels would be limited to the lake, but the Kralix could attain the land. Certainly its appearance in the village would be cause for consternation. Dimma smiled at the thought. Given enough time, the Kralix could chew its way through the palisade wall itself, and Dimma had given it the essence of his Prime selkie as a guide. Wherever Kleg was, the Kralix would find him. And woe be to anybody or anything that got in the Ranafrosch’s path ….

Under the thick bush in the oasis, Conan leaned on one elbow, grinning at Cheen. As he had hoped, his explanation of his adventures with the lizard queen had ended in a demonstration of sorts. Cheen’s responses had been most enthusiastic.

Cheen returned his smile. “I had wondered about you since we met,” she said.

“And now?”

“Now my curiosity is well satisfied.”

Now that he had recovered Hok, Conan wondered about the second part of their quest. “What of the magic talisman?”

Cheen sat up and began to dress. Conan felt a slight stab of regret, for she was very comely without her clothes. He decided that he much liked women with a certain amount of muscle. It was both attractive and useful.

“I am attuned to the Seed,” Cheen said. “Wherever it might be, if I can but get close enough, it will call to me.”

That should make things somewhat easier, Conan decided. He said as much.

Cheen finished dressing. “We should rest,” she said. “We leave when the sun begins his sleep.”

Conan nodded. He lay back on the cushion of dead leaves and soft earth and, within moments, fell into a deep slumber untroubled by dreams.

Kleg sat alone in one corner of a small and uncrowded inn called, for reasons no one seemed to remember, the Wooden Fish. The innkeeper, a bald, stout, pockmarked man of advanced years, set before the selkie a platterful of cooked eel and raw mussels, as well as a tankard of kral, a potent and aromatic beverage favored by Kleg’s kind. He had heard men refer to kral as smelling like a night chamber and tasting like pond scum, but to a selkie, the beverage was sweet and fresh, and far better than the vinegary wines men drank.

Kleg felt much better than he had for several days. He had food, drink, and a room for the day. He would eat and drink, sleep while the sands of the day ran down to night, then arise and look up a few old friends in the evening cool, waiting until dawn again to begin the final leg of his journey. He deserved the rest, he knew, and a single day more would mean little against the vast scale of time, given that he had accomplished his mission. He Who Creates might grumble at Kleg’s slowness, but such noises would be lost in the joy of the prize. Moreover, He Who Creates would certainly not wish for the talisman to be lost during the swim due to tiredness on the part of its bearer. Of that, Kleg had no doubt he could convince his master.

The selkie chewed thoughtfully on a section of eel. It was badly cooked, the eel, and spiced worse, but that was a small matter. In another few days, Kleg would be free to roam the Sargasso, and would dine on fresher fare seasoned in its own hot blood. The thought of it brought a smile to Kleg’s face, and his white teeth gleamed brightly in the flickering light of the tapers.

Thayla’s plan to circle well past the oasis and set a trap for the escapees and their new band seemed to her without flaw. The Queen of the Pili had high hopes that the encounter would be brief and bloody, ending with more meat for the table than her kind had seen in many moons. From disaster could come triumph. When her foolish husband returned, the evidence of her impropriety would be steaming in the kettle, or perhaps slowly roasting over a low fire. Indeed, with as much food as the ambushed party represented, she would have a triumph she could lord over her husband for a long, long time, especially should he fail to obtain the forest talisman.

The shortest and most reasonable path to the east from this part of the desert required a traveler to pass among a series of shifting dunes not more than a few moments’ walk ahead of Thayla and her band. These mounds of fine, powdery sand stood at their tallest more than a dozen times the height of a Pili, and their contours shifted from month to month, sometimes even from day to day. The winds shaped the sands, moving the drifts slowly but surely, so that where they lay upon the desert now was a far remove from where they had been even twenty winters past. Smooth valleys tended to form between the towering dunes, and these valleys became natural pathways.

When they reached the dunes, Thayla followed the widest entry path for a short distance. “Here,” she said. She divided her force and ordered it into position.

“You, you, and you, climb that hillock and hide behind the crest. You and you, ascend yon sandy rock. The four of you, over there. You and you and you, with me, over here.”

The dozen Pili were thus arranged so that when the escapees entered the valley, they would be surrounded.

“Oh, and a special reward for the one whose spear slays the large man, the one who fled our hospitality.”

That remark would ensure that virtually all the troops would concentrate on Conan. To be even more certain, Thayla added, “And should he escape again, I will have all of your hides for a carpet to floor the Korga pens.”

The attack from higher ground would give her troops the advantage, Thayla felt, and even if the slaughter was not complete, Conan would certainly die. That was, after all, the important thing.

As the sun settled low to begin his nightly rest, Thayla climbed the squeaky sands, to wait.

Conan and the small group of Tree Folk moved across the dark desert, water bottles full, enjoying the coolness of the night. Under the moon’s pale gaze, a series of humps arose from the flat desert ahead of them.

“The dunes,” Cheen said. “That means the end of the desert is not far. We will be well clear by first light.”

Conan regarded the dunes. He felt a chill colder than the night air warranted prickle his spine. “I like this not,” he said.

Cheen looked at the Cimmerian. “I do not take your meaning.”

“Travel in the dark is made bearable by the ability to see for such a long distance.” He waved one arm to indicate the flat bareness of the desert around them. “In those hills of sand, our view will be much impeded.”

So.

“So, we have seen no sign of pursuit by the Pili.”

“We should thank the Green Goddess for such good fortune. Perhaps they chose not to follow.”

“Aye. But the Queen of the Pili did not strike me as someone who would allow us to escape unmolested.”

“Does this worry of yours reach some conclusion?”

Conan shrugged. “The Pili would know that we could see them coming for a long way on the desert, giving us time to prepare a defense. But in those hills ahead, they might hide until we came very close. We could be trapped.”

“You worry needlessly. It is unlikely the dunes hold hidden Pili.”

“Unlikely, perhaps. Not impossible.”

“What would you have us do?”

“Go around.”

“That is not a good idea. Going around would cost us hours; we would be caught in the desert sun for at least another half day, perhaps longer.”

Conan shook his head. Why did it seem as if he had spent the greater part of his life of late arguing with women? They must like it, he thought, for no more reason than the sake of the argument itself. Surely it was better to cook under a desert sun for half a day than to leave one’s bones bleaching on the sands for eternity? But he did not say so aloud; instead, he loosened his sword in its scabbard and vowed to approach the passage ahead with special caution, no matter what Cheen said.