“You fear the sword?” he asked softly. His adamantine gaze seemed to pierce to the heart of the cobalt sphere. “Here is that which is to be feared, for by this is summoned and controlled a being—a demon? a god?—I know not, yet a being of such power that even the tomes of Acheron speak of it in whispers full of awe.”
And he would be its master, master of more power than all the kings of all the nations of the world. His breath quickened at the thought. Never yet had he dared that summoning, for that act held dangers for he who summoned, dangers that master might find himself slave, a mortal plaything for an immortal monster with eternity to amuse itself. Yet, was he not descended of Bragoras, ancient hero-king who had slain the dragon Xutharcan and bound the demon Dargon in the depths of the Western Sea?
Almost unbidden, the words of summoning began to roll from his lips. “Af-far mea-roth, Omini deas kaan, Eeth-far be-laan Opheah cristi … .”
As the words came, the sky darkened above the city as though the sun had dimmed to twilight. Lightning cracked and forked across a cloudless sky, and, rumbling, the earth began to shake.
Albanus stumbled, looked around him in sudden panic at walls that quivered like cloth in the breeze. It was too soon for this. It was madness to have tried. And yet, he had not finished the incantation. There was a chance. Hastily he returned the sphere, glowing now, to its cushion within the lacquered chest. With great care he blanked his mind. There must be not even the merest thought of summoning. No thought at all. No thought.
Slowly the light in the crystal sphere faded, and the earth ceased to move. The lightnings faded and were gone. Light broke forth over the city as if at a new sunrise.
For a long time Albanus did not look at Sularia. Did she say one word, he thought grimly, but one word of the spectacle of fool he had made himself, he would gut her and strangle her with her own entrails. But one word. He turned to face her with a face dark as that beneath an executioner’s hood.
Sularia stared at him with eyes filled with pure lust. “Such power,” she whispered. “You are a man of such power, almost I fear me it might blind me to look on you.” Her breath came in pants. “Is it thus you will destroy Garian?”
His spirit soared, and his pride. “Garian is not worthy of such,” he sneered. “I will create a man, give him life with my two hands. So will I bring the usurper to his doom.”
“You are so powerful as that?” she gasped.
He waved it away. “A mere trifle. Already have I done so, and this time the errors of the last will not be repeated.” Abruptly he tangled his hand in her hair, forced her to the floor, forced her though she would have gone willingly and more than willingly. “Nothing stands in my way,” he said as he lowered himself atop her. She cried out, and he heard in it the cries of the people acclaiming their king, their god.
Sephana raised herself from the cushions of her bed, her lushly rounded body sweat-oiled from love making. Her full breasts swayed with the motion.
The man in her bed, a lean young captain of the Golden Leopards, lifted himself unsteadily on one elbow. His dark eyes were worshipful as he gazed at her. “Are you a witch, Sephana? Each time I think that I will die from the pleasure. Each time I think that I’ve had all the ecstacy there is in the world. And each time you give more than I could dream of.”
Sephana smiled contentedly. “And yet, Baetis, I think you tire of me.”
“Never!” he said fervently. “You must believe me. You are Derketo come to earth.”
“But you refuse me such a small favor.”
“Sephana,” he moaned, “you know not what you ask. My duty … .”
“A small favor,” she said again, walking slowly back to the bed.
His eyes followed her hungrily. She was no slender girl, but a woman of curves, a callimastean and callipygean marvel to put hunger in any man’s eyes. He reached for her, but she stepped back.
“A door left unlatched, Baetis,” she said softly. “A passage left unguarded. Would you deny your king a surprise, the same delights you now enjoy?”
The young captain breathed heavily, and hi
s eyes closed. “I, at least, must be there,” he said at last.
“Of course,” she said swiftly, and moved to kneel astride him. “Of course, Baetis, my love.” Her smile was vulpine, the light in her violet eyes feral. Let Albanus make his long, drawn-out plans. She would strike while he still planned. It was a pity that Baetis had to die along with Garian. But that was in the future. Sighing contentedly, she gave herself over to pleasure.
VIII
The straw butts were each the size of a man’s torso. Conan set the last of them in place, and swung into the saddle to gallop the hundred and fifty paces back to the men he and Hordo had gathered in the five days past. He wished the one-eyed man were with him, but Hordo was yet keeping his contacts with the smugglers, and he was seeing to the shifting of goods from a storehouse before the Kings Customs made a supposed surprise inspection. They could never tell, Hordo maintained, when those contacts might prove useful.
The Cimmerian reigned in his big Aqilonian black before the two score mounted men, holding up a short, heavy bow before the men. “This is a horse bow.”
The bows had been a lucky find, for mounted archery was an art unknown in the west, and Conan counted on this skill to add to his Free-Company’s appeal to patrons. The bows had been lying unstrung in the smugglers’ storehouse, thought too short and of too heavy a draw to be wanted. Each of the forty now wore other acquisitions from the storehouse: metal jazeraint hauberks over padded tunics, and spiked helms. A round shield hung at each saddle, and a good Turanian scimitar, bearing the proof-mark of the Royal Foundry at Aghrapur, swung at each hip.
Conan hoped their armor was unfamiliar enough to Nemedia to give them a foreign flavor. Men usually believed that foreigners knew strange tricks of fighting. With the horse bows, they might believe correctly. As he and Hordo had chosen only men already possessing a horse—they had gold enough only for signing bonuses, not for buying horses—so had they chosen men who knew something of archery. But none knew mounted archery. That was why Conan had brought them to this clearing outside of Belverus.
“You’re all accustomed to using a bow-ring on your thumb,” he went on, “but when you fight mounted, you must be able to shift from bow to sword to lance and back, quickly. A bow-ring encumbers the grip.”
“How do you draw the thing at all?” asked a grizzled man with a livid scar across his broad nose. He held the short bow out at arm’s length and attempted to draw it. The cord moved no more than a handspan, producing laughter from some of the others.