Conan the Destroyer (Robert Jordan's Conan Novels 6)

The Stygian necromancer’s smile was cruel. An adamantine will. Beyond acquisition of the girl, there might be sport to be had from such a one.

But first, food and wine and sleep. Wearily Amon-Rama left the chamber of mirrors. On its thin, transparent column the Heart of Ahriman smouldered malevolently.

vii

The sanguinary sun sat on the mountain tops, a burning ball that baked the four riders even as daylight dwindled. Bombatta had cursed steadily since they turned south, but he did it under his breath, and Conan did not try to hear what was said. Had he heard, he might have had to take action, and he had decided that Jehnna should not have to see the other man slain, pleasant though the idea might seem were she not there.

“Over this next hill, Conan,” Malak said suddenly. “Selket stab me if Akiro’s camp does not lie there. If I was not lied to in Shadizar.”

“Three times have you said that,” Jehnna said irritably.

The wiry man shrugged and grinned. “Even I make mistakes now and again, my lady. But this time, I assure you, I am right.”

Stones turned beneath the hooves of Conan’s mount as it made its way up the slope. The Cimmerian was beginning to wonder if Malak even had an idea in which country Akiro was to be found. Then he topped the hill, and growled, “Hannuman’s Stones!”

“Watch your tongue before Jehnna!” Bombatta snarled, but as he reached Conan’s side he muttered, “Black Erlik’s Bowels and Bladder!”

Below them was indeed Akiro’s camp, a crude hut of clay and stone built into the side of a hill. The plump, yellow-skinned wizard, however, was bound hand and foot to a thick, upright post set in the ground before the hut, and about his feet piled branches were just leaping into flame. Three men, their backs to those on the hill, stood in front of the growing fire with heads thrown back to chant at the sky and arms outstretched so that their long, white robes hung beneath them like wings. More than a score of others, their filthy, tattered rags contrasting sharply with the triad’s pristine garments, watched, howling and shaking their spears in approbation.

“I never liked Akiro all that much,” Malak said weakly.

“We need him,” Conan replied. He looked at Bombatta, not asking the question, but the Zamoran saw it in his eyes.

“No, barbar. If this is the man you’ve brought us all this way to find, then he is your affair.”

“Why are you all talking,” Jehnna demanded angrily, “instead of helping that poor man down there? Bombatta?”

“My duty is to guard you, child. Would you have me take you among those savages below, or leave you here alone when there might be others about?”

“There is still time to ride for Arenjun,” Malak suggested.

“Go straight for Akiro, Malak.” Conan’s broadsword came easily into his hand, the setting sun lighting its length with premonitory crimson. “He cannot stand those flames much longer.” With that he kicked his horse into a gallop down the hill.

“Donar help me,” Malak hissed at the Cimmerian’s back, “think you of the kind of men who can tie up a wizard!” Muttering quick prayers to half a score of gods, the small thief loosed the horse he had brought for Akiro and followed.

Silently Conan charged, the clash of shod hooves on stone drowned beneath the yells and chants of the spearmen before him. His horse burst into a knot of them, throwing suddenly screaming men to either side like a ship breasting a wave. Others scrambled toward him, spears dropping to the ready, but he ignored them for the moment. The whiteclad trio had not ceased their chanting, nor looked away from Akiro. Wizardry of some kind it surely was, and the Cimmerian was just as sure it must be halted if Akiro was to be saved.

The center of the three went down beneath the hooves of Conan’s horse with a startled scream and the crunch of bone. The big youth had no compunction about riding him down from behind. This was no sport, but rather war in miniature. These men meant to kill a friend of his, and he would stop them how he could.

The long-robed man to his right snarled at him, produced a dagger from his voluminous sleeve. The Cimmerian could not help staring in horror even as his sword went up. That snarling mouth held teeth filed to points, and below it hung a necklace of shriveled human hands. Small hands. Children’s hands.

Conan made his first sound then since leaving the hilltop, a roar of rage as his steel slashed into that foul, sharp-toothed gap. With a gurgling scream the man jerked himself off the blade. Clawed hands rose to clutch at a ruined face; blood poured between quivering fingers, and spreading scarlet stained the pale robe.

Then Conan had no more time to think of the wizard, if such he was, or of the last of the three, who seemed to have disappeared. Shock had frozen the trio’s followers at first. Now they came at a rush.

The first spear to thrust at him Conan grabbed just behind the head, ripping it from the grasp of a man whose throat was torn out by the Cimmerian’s broadsword an instant later. With the haft of that spear he beat aside another thrust while his blade was slicing yet another shaft in two. Desperately he shifted his hold on the spear and sank its long point into the face of one of his attackers. His steel clove a skull to the eyes.

Three were dead in as many heartbeats, and the rest fell back. They were enough to sweep over him by sheer weight of numbers, but some would surely die. They had proof of that, now, and none wanted to be in the forefront. They shuffled nervously, edging forward, darks eyes burning with a mixture of fear and shame at that fear.

Carefully, not taking his eyes from the slowly approaching spearmen, Conan stepped down from his horse. They would have the advantage, with their long spears, should he remain mounted. Not, he told himself wryly, that there was not some advantage for them merely in outnumbering him twenty to one. Best to take the initiative. He eyed their straggly line, chose the weakest point, and set himself to attack.

Suddenly a ball of fire shot past his shoulder to strike a ragged spearman in the face and explode in lumps of charred flesh.

Conan jumped in spite of himself, and looked over his shoulder. Beside the fire Malak capered wildly, grinning like a fool. In front of the wiry little thief stood Akiro, his rough brown tunic and cross-gaitered leggings still smouldering in patches. The old wizard’s lips moved as if he were chanting, but no sound emerged that Conan could hear. Parchment-skinned hands moved in elaborate patterns, ending in a clap at chest height. And when Akiro’s hands parted another fireball hurtled from between his palms. Immediately he began gesturing again, but two corpses with blackened stumps where their heads had

been were more than enough. Howling with terror the rag-clad spearmen threw down their weapons and ran into the deepening twilight. Their cries faded quickly to the south.

“Misbegotten, half-breed spawn of diseased camels!” Akiro muttered. He peered at his hands, blew on his palms, dusted them together. His wispy gray hair and long mustaches stood out in disarrayed spikes. He smoothed them angrily. “I will teach them a lesson to make their grandchildren’s grandchildren shake at the mention of my name. I will make their blood freeze and their bones quiver like jelly.”