Conan The Freelance (16 page)

“Anything else? Such as?”

“A … seed. About the size of a man’s fist.”

“Aye, I did see such a thing. Picked it up,

I did, I meant to sell it to the old Talow, but …”

“But what?”

In the semidarkness, Kleg could see the old man’s features grow crafty, his bloodshot eyes narrowing, his lips curling into a thin smile.

“Go on, about the Seed.”

“Well, maybe it has got some value, eh?”

“I have already said, a barrel of wine if you can produce it.”

“Maybe more than a barrel o’ wine, eh? Maybe it is worth two barrels?”

“Two, done.”

“Ah. Three, maybe?”

The selkie’s anger enveloped him like a shroud. Every other soul on the streets wished to drink his blood and this stinking old man wanted to exact a higher price! Kleg grabbed the old man’s ragged shirtfront with one hand and lifted him clear off the floor; with his other hand, he drew his knife and laid the point against the man’s wrinkled throat. “And maybe I shall cut your head off and spit down the hole! If you have the Seed, produce it!”

“N-n-no, don’t cut me! I-I-I d-don’t have it-“

Kleg pressed the tip of the knife against the flesh and a bead of blood appeared.

“W-w-wait! I had it! B-b-b-but I lost it!”

“Where did you lose it?”

“I d-d-dunno. I had it wh-when I slopped the pigs this morning! Then I could not find it!”

“Where are the animals penned?”

“B-behind the sl-sl-slaughterhouse! Two st-streets up fr-from the g-g-grain b-b-bin.”

Kleg lowered the old man, so that he stood on shaky legs. “Is this true? Could you have dropped it at the pens?”

“Y-yes. I am sure that is wh-where I lost it.”

Kleg felt a surge of hope within his breast. Could it be that he might still find the talisman and escape?

“What of my wine?” the old man said. His voice had lost its quaver and greed had replaced the fear.

Kleg looked at the old man. He could not have this drunken lout telling this tale to anyone else.

“The wine. Ah, yes. It is right there, behind you.

When the old man turned around to squint into the darkness, Kleg grabbed his hair with one hand and drew the sharp blade across his throat, hard. The old man gurgled and pitched forward, clutched at his neck, and tried to dam the outward flow of his life. He failed.

Kleg noticed that it was getting lighter inside. He glanced at the window and saw that the sky was a glowing yellow orange. The fire, it must be spreading!

The selkie did not spare the swinekeeper a backward glance as he darted from the stable.

By the Black Depths, half the village was in flames!

He had to get to the swine pens before the whole place went up.

He ran.

Conan realized that they were in danger when he saw a building next to the palisade collapse and fall against the wall. Flames licked at the wooden retainer, and in moments it, too, was being eaten by the raging fire.

Conan grabbed Cheen by one arm. “We must get out of the village!”

“What?”

“The fire is out of control, the whole town is going to burn. We will be cooked in here!”

Around them, people began to realize much the same thing, judging from the excited tones of their voices. Conan watched as a group of four men ran down the main street toward the main gate in the distance. Flaming structures lined both sides of the road, and when the four were only a hundred paces away, the tallest of the buildings lurched forward and fell, covering the men with burning wood and blocking the street with more fire.

The fires reached up toward the night sky as more and more buildings took light. The heat smote Conan on his exposed skin. The very air was hot in his lungs. Buildings exploded into flame now, popping and crackling and swirling like dust devils.

Screams filled the air as the inhabitants realized how bad it really was. A wall of mad, dancing fire sprang up, blocking any exit toward the village gate, and even the palisade itself now shot fiery fingers even higher, driving the darkness well back.

“The lake,” Conan said. “We must go toward the lake.”

“The lake is dangerous!”

“It is certain death any other way! Come!”

The two of them turned and ran in the direction of the only coolness left in the village. And even attaining that was not assured, as the pitch-covered docks sunk in the lake were beginning to smolder in places.

Conan looked up to see a Pili running the same way, and next to the lizard man, he spotted Tair and Hok, also fleeing. Whatever differences any of them had would have to wait, for when fleeing fire, all animals were brothers.

Thayla went from worrying about her husband to worrying about being roasted. Almost everywhere she looked flames filled the night. The whole village was on fire! What was going on here?

“Milady! This way!”

For a moment, Thayla allowed herself to be pulled along by Blad; he seemed to know where he was going. Then she saw an opening in the wall of fire, and she shouted at him. “That way is clear.”

“That leads to the lake, milady!”

She took his point. Pili did not swim, there being little opportunity to do so in the desert. Then again, while the desert was hot, it hardly compared to a raging fire.

“There will be water craft of some kind. Hurry! “

They hurried. The crackle of light and heat was joined here and there by the collapse of buildings and the screams of villagers too slow to escape one or the other.

Thayla did not know what had caused the inferno but she suspected that her quarry had been in some way responsible.

The Queen of the Pili dodged a shower of flaming embers falling in her path. Time to worry about cause later, fool. Worry about escape now!

As the Mist Mage floated down one of the many corridors of his enclosed realm, he felt himself grow heavy. Could it be? Could he be about to gain solidity again, so soon?

With that very thought, he coalesced into the substance of a man and dropped to the stone floor.

A miracle! For this to happen again so soon after the last time surely must portend good fortune? His goal must be nearly attained!

None of his servants were near, and he needed to get to food and his mistress while he wore the flesh. So Dimma ran down the hall, glorying in his ability to do so. As he passed a thick sheet of quartz that had been carved into a bat-shaped window and inset into the wall to admit light, he skidded to a stop. He very nearly fell, being unused to walking, much less running, but managed to maintain his footing. He returned to the window and stared through it.

The quartz was of varying thickness, so that anything viewed through it was somewhat distorted to a man’s eye, but the mineral was of sufficient quality to allow Dimma to see in the distance, on a clear day, the village of Karatas, on the eastern edge of the lake. Under night’s shroud as it now was, the village was usually invisible, the tiny lights being too far away to be viewed. But Dimma could see it now, Karatas. Or what was left of it.

Even from so great a distance, the flames that engulfed the town formed a bright flickering that lit the night.

Dimma stared at the sight. In his five hundred years, he had seen many towns destroyed-by wind, by fire, sometimes by magic. After such a long time, little surprised him. Some fool of a peasant knocks over a lamp and the tinder-dry wood of his but catches the sizzling oil and ignites, spreading to other hovels quickly. All too common a happening.

Still, as Dimma watched, a grin lit his face. Even though it was a sight he had seen many times, it was not one of which he had ever tired. The villagers’ terror would be a delicious morsel, could he but be close enough to hear their frightened yells, could he but see their stricken faces. Ah, yes, some things never lost their appeal.

But as Dimma continued his vigil, he felt a ratlike worry gnawing at his thoughts. His Prime selkie would most likely come through the village on his way back with the final ingredient of Dimma’s salvation. Had he already completed his passage, there was no problem. Or, had Kleg yet to reach the town on the shore, he could wait for it to finish burning, also without any danger, a delay Dimma did not like, but could understand. But what if Kleg were in the village even as -Dimma watched? What if the fool allowed himself to be consumed by the fire, and with him the only remaining piece of the spell Dimma needed to remove his curse?

No, that would not do, not at all!

Dimma turned away from the quartz window and sought to run again. He would send more of his thralls to look for the selkie. Every beast under his command, if need be, for nothing was more important than that this quest be ended successfully, nothing!

Dimma managed five quick steps, but the sixth was denied him. As his foot reached for the floor, the Mist Mage lost himself. As he became brother to smoke once again, Dimma screamed his frustration to the heavens.

Kleg, Prime selkie, highest of those brought up from the fishes by He Who Creates, knelt in mud thick with swine excrement, digging through it with his hands.

The pigs were gone. Kleg had knocked the fence aside, and the squealing animals fled the approaching fire without so much as a backward glance. The selkie himself glanced nervously over his shoulder now and again. That cursed monster could appear again at any moment, but he could not allow himself to dwell on it.

Already, the mud began to dry from the intense heat, making it more difficult to work. The nearest building had not yet taken flame, but it smoked and creaked next to him, and it would only be a matter of moments before it joined the storm of flames that beat at the night.

He had not much time left, Kleg knew. Flames ate the village around him, he was very nearly encircled, and the skin on his arms and face baked under the approaching enemy’s hot breath. He dragged his fingers through the mud like small rakes, praying that the old man had spoken the truth. It had to be here. It had to be!

A loud pop! announced the ignition of the building next to Kleg. The blast of heat smote at the selkie like a hot fist.

Kleg dived away, sprawling facedown in the mud. The muck was cooling to his skin, and he quickly rolled onto his back, coating himself with a thick layer there as well. That helped, but he knew it would only buy him a few seconds. He had to flee now, or die.

There was no help for it, the talisman was lost.

Kleg took two steps through the hardening mire and put his foot down on something hard.

He dropped and dug through the sty. His hand touched a familiar shape. Could it be?

The ‘Seed!

Kleg grinned as he dug the talisman from the mud. He had it!

He stuffed the muddy Seed into his pouch, made certain that the pouch was tied securely shut this time, and ran. The corridor ahead narrowed rapidly, but he was through before the fire claimed it completely.

Ahead, the smell of the lake called. The fire was nearly everywhere, but Kleg was certain he could make it to the water and the weed beyond.

With the mud protecting him against the intense heat, Kleg dodged his way toward safety.

Conan led Cheen, Tair, and Hok to the edge of the lake. Others of the village had much the same idea, and the Cimmerian and his small band arrived at the shore next to a collection of small boats and pulled up on the mud at the same time as a dozen villagers.

Conan moved toward a boat that would hold six people safely.

A large man beat him to it. “This ‘un is mine!” the man said. He started to shove the boat into the water.

“There is room for half a dozen. We will share it,” Conan said.

“Nay! There is no time!” The man pulled a knife from his belt, a curved blade that was nearly a short sword in length. “Away with you!.,

“You are right, there is no time for this,” Conan said. With that, he drew his own broadsword and swung it, taking off the hand holding the knife, as well as the head behind it. The big man, no longer so tall, dropped like a sack of wheat.

“Into the boat!” Conan ordered.

Tair, Cheen, and Hok obeyed.

Next to them, with a hiss and a roar, a dock covered in thick pitch flashed into a long sheet of flame.

Conan shoved the boat, putting his legs and back into the move. The boat slid into the water and moved easily away from the land. At the last instant Conan leaped, landing next to Cheen.

Tair already had one of the oars up and in the lock, and Hok was straining to lift the second oar when Conan grabbed it from him and thrust it into place. “Move aside,” he commanded, catching the handle of the second oar.

This was not an art at which the Cimmerian was particularly skilled, rowing, but strength counted for a great deal. Conan pulled the wooden blades through the water, using the great power of his arms and shoulders, leaning back into the movement, and the boat sped away from the shore and burning dock at a speed equal to a sluggish runner.

A shed on the dock collapsed, sending a shower of sparks at the boat, but only a few cinders reached them.

As Conan rowed, he looked at the village. It seemed to be a single sheet of flame now, with only a few surviving figures on the edge of the water outlined against the raging inferno.

“The weed is not far,” Tair said.

Conan nodded, but did not speak. There was a large enough stretch of water between the village and the weed so that the fire would not reach it, even if the weed was apt to burn, probably unlikely for a water plant in any event. He would worry about the weed and its dangers later; now, he had to escape the edge of the fire.

Conan rowed, and the boat slid across the water to safety.

When Thayla and Blad reached the land’s edge, there were only a pair of boats left, and those the object of contention among a group of perhaps fifteen men. The men flailed at each other with fists and feet. A few used knives or sticks, and for good reason. The small boats might each possibly hold four or five passengers safely; more would sink the craft.

Thayla did not hesitate. She ran straight for the nearer of the boats. “Blad-clear a path!”

The young Pili warrior lowered the point of his spear and uttered a war cry as they ran.