Silent as death three saffron-robed men hurtled from a side corridor, scimitars slashing.
Conan caught a blade on his broadsword, sweeping it toward the wall and up. As his own blade came parallel to the floor he slipped it off the other in a slashing blow that half-severed his opponent’s head. Flashing swiftly on, his sword axed into the second man’s head a heartbeat before Akeba’s steel buried itself in the man’s ribs. Twice-slain, the body fell atop that of he who had faced the Turanian at the first attack.
“You work well,” Akeba grunted, wiping his blade on a corpse’s robe. “You should think of the army if we live to leave this … .” His words trailed off as both men became aware of a new presence in the corridor. The black-robed Khitan assassin.
Unhurriedly he moved toward them, with the casual confidence of a great beast that knows its kill is assured. His hands were empty of weapons, but Conan remembered well the dead in Samarra’s yurt, with no wound on any but looks of horror on every face, and Zorelle, dead from a touch.
Conan firmed his grip on the worn leather hilt of his broadsword, but as he stepped forward Akeba laid a hand on his arm. The soldier’s voice was as cold as frozen iron. “He is mine. By right of blood, he is mine.”
Reluctantly Conan gave way, and the Turanian moved forward alone. Of necessity the big Cimmerian waited to watch his friend do battle. Jhandar was still uppermost in his mind, but the way to him led deeper into the palace, past the murderously maneuvering pair before him.
The Khitan smiled; his hand struck like a serpent, and, like a mongoose, Akeba was not there. The assassin flowed from the path of the soldier’s flashing steel, yet the smile was gone from his face. Like malefic dancers the two men moved, lightning blade against fatal touch, each aware of the other’s deadliness, each intent on slaying. Abruptly the Khitan deciphered the pattern of Akeba’s moves; the malevolent hand darted for the soldier’s throat. Desperately Akeba blocked the blow, and it struck instead his sword arm. Crying out, the Turanian staggered back, tulwar falling, arm dangling, clawing with his good hand for his dagger. The assassin paused to laugh before closing for the kill.
“Crom!” Conan roared, and leapt.
Only the Khitan’s unnatural suppleness saved him from the blade that struck where he had been. Smiling again, he motioned the Cimmerian to come to him, if he dared.
“I promised to let you kill him,” Conan said to Akeba, without taking his eyes from the black-robed man, “not the other way around.”
The Turanian barked a painful laugh. He clutched his dagger in one hand, but the other twitched helplessly at his side and only the tapestry-covered wall kept him from falling. “As you’ve interfered,” he said between clenched teeth, “then you must kill him for me, Cimmerian.”
“Yes,” the assassin hissed. “Kill me, barbarian.”
Without warning, Conan lunged, blade thrusting for the black-robed one’s belly, but the killer seemed to glide backwards, stopping just beyond the sword’s point.
“You must do better, barbar. Che Fan was wrong. You are just another man. I do not think you truly entered the Blasted Lands, but even if you did, you survived only by luck. I, Suitai, will put an end to you here. Come to me and find your death.”
As the tall man spoke Conan moved slowly forward, sliding his feet along the marble floor so that he was at no time unbalanced. His sword he held low before him, point flickering from side to side like the tongue of a viper, light from the burnished brass lamps on the walls glittering along the steel, and though the Khitan spoke confidently, he kept an eye on that blade.
Abruptly, as the assassin finished his speech, Conan tossed his sword from right hand to left, and Suitai’s gaze followed involuntarily. In that instant the Cimmerian jerked a tapestry from the wall to envelop the other man. Even as the hanging tangled about the Khitan’s head and chest Conan lunged after, steel ripping through cloth and flesh, grating on bone.
Slowly the assassin heaved aside the portion of the tapestry that covered his head. With glazing eyes he stared in disbelief at the blade standing out from his chest, the dark blood that spread to stain his robes.
“Not my death,” Conan told him. “Yours.”
The Khitan tried to speak, but blood welled from his mouth, and he toppled, dead as he struck the marble floor. Conan tugged his blade free, cleaning it on the tapestry as he might had it been thrust into offal.
“I give you thanks, my friend,” Akeba said, pushing unsteadily away from the wall. His face gleamed with the sweat of pain, and his arm still dangled at his side, but he managed to stand erect as he looked on the corpse of his daughter’s murderer. “But now you have hunting of your own to do.”
“Jhandar,” Conan said, and without another word he was moving forward again.
Like a great hunting cat he strode through halls lit by glittering brass lamps, but bare of life. The gods smiled on those who did not meet him in those passages, for he would not now have slowed to see if they bore weapons or not. His blood burned for Jhandar’s death. Any who hindered or slowed him now would perish in a pool of their own blood.
Then great bronze doors stood before him, doors scribed with a pattern that seemed to have no pattern, that rejected the eye’s attempt to focus on it. Setting hands against those massive metal slabs, muscles cording with strain, he forced the portals open. Sword at the ready, he went through.
In an instant the horror of that great circular chamber engraved itself on his brain. Yasbet lay chained and gagged on a black altar, to one side of her Davinia, knife upraised to plunge into the bound girl’s heart, to the other Jhandar, an arcane chant rising from his mouth to pierce the air. Over the entire blood-chilling tableau a shimmering silvery-azure dome was forming.
“No!” Conan shouted.
Yet even as he dashed forward he knew he would not reach them before that knife had done its terrible work. He fumbled for his dagger. Davinia froze at his cry. Jhandar’s incantation died as he spun to confront the man who had dared interrupt the rite; the glow disappeared as his words ceased. Desperately Conan hurled his dagger—toward Davinia, for she still held her gleaming blade poised above Yasbet—but Jhandar turning, moved between them. The mage screamed as the needle-sharp steel sliced into his arm.
Clutching his wound, blood dripping between his fingers, Jhandar turned a frightful glare on Conan. “By the blood and earth and Powers of Chaos I summon you,” he intoned. “Destroy this barbarian?” Davinia shrank back, as if she would have fled had she dared.
The floor trembled, and Conan skidded to a halt as chunks of marble erupted almost beneath his feet. Leather-skinned and fanged, a sending such as those he had faced before clawed its way clear of dirt and stone. With a wild roar, the Cimmerian brought his blade down with all his might in an overhead blow, slicing through the demoniac skull to the shoulders. Yet, unbleeding and undying, it struggled to reach him, and he must needs chop and chop again, hacking the monstrous thing apart. Even then its fragments twitched in unabated fury. More creatures tore through stone between him and the altar, and still more to either side of him, snarling in bloodlust. As a man might reap hay Conan worked his sword, steel rising and falling tirelessly. Severed limbs and heads and chunks of obscene flesh littered the floor, yet there were more, always more, ripping passage from the bowels of the earth. Cut off from Yasbet and the altar, it was but a matter of time before he was overwhelmed by sheer numbers.
A smile, pained, yet tinged with satisfaction at the Cimmerian’s coming doom, appeared on Jhandar’s
face. “So Suitai lied,” he rasped. “I will settle with him for it. But now, barbar, pause a moment in your exertions, if you can, to watch the fate of this woman, Esmira. Davinia! Attend the rite as I commanded you, woman!”