Conan The Freelance (8 page)

Conan saw the approaching figures long before they arrived. His fiery blue eyes took in the scene, and he knew he was about to meet another batch of the Pili’s dragonlike hounds. He rolled his shoulders, limbering them, and pulled his sword. A cursory glance told the Cimmerian youth that there was no cover to be had. There was a small hill, not more than thrice his own height, a short ways to his left; that would give him the higher ground, something of an advantage, but not much. He had perhaps a minute or so before the reptilian creatures arrived, so he trotted toward the rise and began to climb.

When he was nearly to the top of the hillock, Conan almost fell into a pit. Due to the nature of the ground, he had not seen it until he was nearly upon it. The sandy depression was fairly deep, perhaps nearly his own height, and the sides were angled down sharply. Odd, the pit, he seemed to recall seeing something like it before, but he could not quite remember where.

Conan circumvented the pit and reached the pinnacle of the small hill. Perhaps one of the Korga would fall into the hole, were it moving fast enough to miss seeing it in time. True, it could climb out easily enough, but the effort would give Conan more time to dispatch the others.

He shifted his grip on the sword handle until it felt perfect. Seven of them. Bad odds. Well, if this were to be his last battle, he would sell himself as dearly as he could. He would arrive in front of Crom with as many of these beasts as he could bring. He hoped Crom had forgotten about their earlier meeting, but it had been recent enough that Conan doubted that happening.

The lizard beasts came, hissing and growling. They seemed to take no notice of the change in terrain, but clambered up the hillock in lunging bounds, teeth flashing in their scaled muzzles as they drew nearer.

Conan cocked the sword back over his right shoulder. Perhaps he could cleave through two at once, did he swing hard enough.

Perhaps some god felt benevolent this day, for the first of the onrushing beasts never thought to look for its footing and fairly sailed into the pit just below where Conan stood. The big Cimmerian, even though staring his death in the eyes, managed to find a smile. Foolish beast.

The other Korga, however, seeing the fate of their leader, slowed their headlong run and circled around the pit.

Conan shifted to his left as the sun’s hot light flashed on the fangs of the nearest beast. As the thing lunged toward him, Conan swung the blued-iron blade with all his strength. The sword sang in the air as it bit into the Korga’s neck, found a space between bones, and sheared the thing’s head cleanly from its shoulders.

The headless body continued running, but past Conan.

Conan spun in time to meet the next Korga’s charge. Continuing the motion of the blade, Conan opened the beast horizontally. Entrails spilled, and the lizard creature blinked and looked down, forgetting all about Conan.

But the other four were nearly upon him. Conan shifted his stance to recock the blade.

He could take one more, mayhaps two, were he lucky

The first Korga screamed from the pit. It was a long cry that stopped as though sliced off by a razor.

Conan risked a glance toward the pit as another of the beasts impaled itself on his extended sword point.

Something was coming out of the pit, and it was not the Korga that had fallen into it.

In that instant, Conan recalled where he had seen the like before. It had been much, much smaller, and had belonged to a spidery creature that fed upon ants and other tiny insects unfortunate enough to slide into its trap.

What came from within this ground, however, was twice the size of the beasts, and it looked like a spider from the dream of a mad god. The monster was black and furry, eyeless, but with arm-thick mandibles that dripped smoking poison, and what seemed at least eight legs.

“Crom.”

Faster than he would have thought possible, the monster scrabbled up the hillock and attacked one of the surprised Korga. The click of the thing’s mandibles was loud in the desert air; with one snap, it clipped the Korga in twain.

The remaining Korga scattered amidst loud and fearful hissings, and the monster turned toward the nearest and began to chase it. Big it was, and hideous, and faster than its scaled target.

Conan turned and sprinted in the opposite direction.

Perhaps the hellspawn preferred Pili dogs to human flesh, but Conan had no intention of finding out firsthand. Let it feast on the Korga until sated. And even as he ran, he resolved to watch more closely his own steps.

Kleg waded into the small lake, grinning. The rain continued, somewhat lighter now, but as the water rose up to his waist, then chest and neck, the rain ceased to matter.

He sank below the surface and began the Change.

With his first breath of water, gills sprouted along the sides of his neck. His bones stretched, sinews creaking as they followed, and his flesh began to shift. His legs elongated and at the same time fused into a single unit. His feet formed themselves into a tail, longer on the top than on the bottom. His arms drew in toward his sleek body, his hands flattening into fins. A dorsal fin sprouted from his back, a delta shape reaching upward, and other fins emerged from his ventral side. His eyes moved back, his mouth widened, and rows of serrated teeth pushed through the hardening gums.

In a few seconds, the Change was complete. What had been Kleg the manlike was now twice the length and covered with skin the texture of pumice, as deadly a thing that swam any salt sea.

With a flick of his tail, Kleg drove his metamorphosed form through the water. New senses told him that the thrashing scrat lay just ahead, waiting for its destiny.

And its destiny was … prey.

Around him in the water, Kleg was aware of his brothers also undergoing the Change, becoming as he was, seeking that which he sought, but Kleg was first, and he opened his massive jaws and bit deeply.

In a matter of moments, the clear blue water had turned a cloudy crimson, and the struggling scrat was no more.

Dimma floated through the halls of his castle toward the strong room that contained his most valuable treasures: the eight items that composed his recovery spell. Only one piece was lacking for completion, and soon his Prime selkie would return with that one piece.

Ah, to be solid again, never to fear that coldness and sudden shift into vaporous ether! Once he retained a body upon which he could depend, things would change in this realm. He would go forth in the flesh, sweeping all who stood before him aside, taking control of all he saw. He had practiced his spells for five hundred years, after all, and he would not make the same mistakes he had made before. He would be Dimma the Mist Mage no longer, but instead Dimma the Destroyer. Perhaps he would make himself king, and even allow Seg to be his queen-until he got bored with her, of course, and found some nubile beauty to replace her. And after that one, another and another. There was much to be done, after all the years of inactivity. Pleasures to be had, armies to be slain, villages and even countries to enslave, all at the whim of Dimma the Destroyer.

Yes. He much liked the sound of that.

Ahead, Conan saw the rocky outcrop that must be the habitat of the Pili. The three-toed tracks of the deceased Korga led directly toward the low stone mound, which seemed more a jumble of giant rocks piled upon the desert by a careless god than anything else.

Conan squatted and observed the mound. The Pili had chosen a location from which they could observe approach from any direction. Aside from occasional clumps of dry bush, the land was bare around the mound for half an hour’s fast walk. Even using the sporadic cover of the bushes, it would take a skilled man to manage a surprise visit to the Pili. In daylight, a party of three or more would likely find it impossible, were even a half-blind guard posted.

There was the key, Conan decided. A careful man could sneak close under cover of night, assuming he kept downwind to avoid watch beasts. Assuming also that the Pili’s night vision was no more sharp than a man’s. Risky, perhaps, but was not Conan planning to become a successful thief when he reached Shadizar? One had to begin practice somewhere.

Conan moved to a roundish clump of brush and settled into its shade. Darkness would not be long in coming. He would wait; in the meanwhile, he would sleep.

Kleg, his hunger sated and his form once again that which resembled a man, looked up at the clearing sky. The rain had finally diminished and, even as he watched, stopped entirely. The late-afternoon air was cool and evening fast approaching. They would resume their homeward journey on the morrow, he decided.

Awake in her bed, Thayla was restless. She hoped her fool of a husband could recover the talisman of the Tree Folk, but there was no guarantee of success. That the Pili were in decline could not be denied, but with that magical token, they might establish themselves far enough away from the trails of men to become once again a powerful force. Then those things that should be hers by right could be made to happen, but until then, life might be a precarious thing.

Thayla threw the silk sheet from her and lay naked on the bed, her voluptuous body exposed to the night air. She needed a male, she decided, but she deemed none of those left behind by her husband satisfactory. He had taken the strongest and best ones with him, and Thayla was certain he had done so deliberately to thwart her desires. As a married female, she was not allowed to lie with any other than her husband, but that was a formality as far as she was concerned. Still, the cream of the Pili had gone with the king, leaving behind mostly females, children, and old males; with a few young stalwarts who had strength, but little experience as lovers. She did not feel like teaching a new male old tricks on this night.

No, Thayla wanted a lover with power and grace and endurance and she wanted him now.

Too bad, she thought. Maybe a prayer to the Great Dragon will bring results, eh? A gift from the Gods?

The Queen of the Pili rolled over onto her stomach and clutched one of the silken pillows to her bosom. The Gods help those who help themselves, she thought, sighing. Which of the boring young males could she send her chambermaid to fetch?

Conan worked his way toward the rocky mound with the skill of a hunter stalking a wary deer. Under the blanket of night, even his sharp eyes had trouble seeing much detail in the desert, though the chore was made easier by the Pili themselves as he drew nearer.

A guttering, smoky torch mounted on the face of the stone revealed both a guard and the entrance to a cave.

Prone on the soft ground, Conan considered the scene.

The guard looked like a man at this distance, a bald man, wearing a kind of short, dark kilt and crossed straps over his chest. His skin seemed bluish in the dim light, though that was hard to tell for certain. A short, thin spear completed the Pili guard’s costume, this weapon held in one hand, though it was more like a long arrow than a real spear. After searching for a bow, Conan spotted a wooden thrower lying on the ground next to the guard. He did not seem particularly alert, the guard, as he leaned against the wall behind him, appearing to be half-asleep.

The yawning entrance to the cave bothered Conan more than did the single guard. He had no love for such places, especially after his recent experience in a vast underground system full of giant worms, bloodbats, and other foul beasts. Still, he had come to rescue Hok, and if the boy was within, there was no help for it. It was not likely that the Pili would send him out should Conan ask.

The Cimmerian circled to his right, moving with great stealth, freezing at the smallest desert sound, until finally he was next to the rock wall to the guard’s left. He moved closer, until he deemed it unlikely he could approach any more without being seen. During this time, the guard shifted from foot to foot once, slouched more against the wall, hawked and spat twice. No, alertness did not seem one of this particular Pili’s virtues.

Conan’s plan was simple enough. He found a stone somewhat larger than his fist and gripped it in his right hand. With his left hand, he picked up a pebble, then tossed it past the guard. When the Pili turned to see what had made the noise, Conan would leap up and clout that bald head with the stone.

The pebble bounced from a flat patch of stone and skittered into the darkness.

The guard did not move, nor did he appear to take notice of the sound.

Well, probably the normal contractions of the mound under the cooling desert air made many such sounds each night and the guard was used to them. Conan should have thought of that.

He found a slightly larger pebble and tossed it.

The result was the same.

Perhaps the Pili were hard of hearing?

Conan picked up another stone, this one nearly as large as the rock he planned to use as a weapon. This would certainly get his attention. He heaved the rock.

The stone, easily the size of a small boy’s fist, clattered past the guard’s feet. Still the Pili did not react.

Conan stood and moved. If he had not heard that, neither would he hear Conan’s footsteps.

Half a span away from the guard, Conan lifted the rock to strike. He stepped closer. Then stopped.

The guard, leaning against the rock, was asleep on his feet. Conan raised his other hand and waved it in front of the guard’s face. The Cimmerian grinned. Well. He would sleep more soundly in a moment. Conan lifted the rock.

Inside the cave, there were more torches set at irregular intervals along the corridor wall. Conan hurried along the corridor. The place had a musky smell that was not unpleasant, and the air was warmer than that outside. He was inside and that had been easy enough. Now all he had to do was find the boy and get back out.

No, Thayla decided, she would not awaken her chambermaid and have her fetch one of the young males. It would take more effort than it was worth. Instead, the queen arose from her bed and put on her wrap. Perhaps she would go for a walk in the night air. The Korga had not returned, so .they would not hiss at her. That the animals had not come back disturbed Rawl the old one, but bothered. Thayla not a whit. Stupid beasts.