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

“I am thine, O great Dagoth,” she whispered again, “and forever will I be thine. When thou wakeneth I will build temples to thee, overturning the temples of other gods, but I will be more than thy priestess. Thy godly flesh will merge with mine, and I will hold myself chaste hereafter, save for thee. I will sit on thy right hand, and by thy grace will I receive the ultimate powers over life and death. Once more will the sacrifices be made to thee, and once more to thee will the nations bow. All this I vow, O great Dagoth, and seal it with my flesh and my soul.”

Suddenly her breath caught in her throat. That on which she lay had still the hardness of stone, but now it held the warmth of life. Not daring to believe, fearing that perhaps it was but the heat of her own body, absorbed, she brought her hands down over the broad, perfect shoulders to the deep chest. Everywhere was the warmth.

Almost at once it was gone again, and her last doubts were shattered by the unnatural quickness of its going. Her god had given her a sign. Her offering would be accepted; the rewards would be hers. Smiling, she let her own sleep claim her there, lying atop the form of the Sleeping God.

ix

Conan’s eyes narrowed as he studied what lay ahead. Shadows stretched before him, and behind the sun had not yet risen two handbreadths above the horizon. There were shadows in plenty on the sheer rock wall that faced them half a league on, the narrow lines of folds and creases in the stone, but no sign of any pass.

“Jehnna?” he called, looking over his shoulder.

He did not have to say more. All had fallen silent as they saw what they approached, and even the slender girl wore a worried frown.

“We must go this way,” she said insistently. “I know this is the right way. Straight ahead now. I know it.”

Conan booted his horse into a trot. Whatever lay ahead—and there had better be something, by all the gods—he was impatient to find out what it was.

He scanned the cliffs, running a league to the north and south of the point they rode toward. The lowest was at least fifty paces in height and topped with a jutting overhang, the highest was ten times that. Occasional vertical crevices and shadowed chimneys split the continuous front, but in those two leagues was nothing that even hinted at a passage through.

He could climb it, he knew. He had climbed higher cliffs and sheerer in the wind-swept mountain fastnesses of his native Cimmeria. Malak likely could, as well, and perhaps even Bombatta, but Akiro was no scaler of cliffs, and the Cimmerian could see no way at all to get Jehnna over them unless she grew wings. Wings. He hummed thoughtfully. Actual wings were out of the question, of course, but perhaps Akiro could provide an answer. Mayhap the old man could use his powers to lift himself and the girl to the top of the cliff while the rest of them climbed in more ordinary fashion.

Abruptly he realized what lay directly ahead of him. Straight ahead, she had said, and straight ahead was a narrow crevice, but a crevice that stretched deep into the cliff, losing his eyes with a sharp bend in fifty paces. He could not be so lucky, he was sure, that this would not be their path. Wings, he thought, would have been much better.

Conan looked around at the others. It was clear by their faces that they all saw what he had seen. Even Bombatta wore a doubtful grimace, and Malak was muttering prayers under his breath. Only Jehnna appeared sure, and even so the Cimmerian could not help asking.

“This?” She nodded firmly, and he sighed. “I will go first,” he said, loosening his broadsword in its worn leather scabbard. “Malak behind me, then Akiro and the packhorse, then Jehnna. Bombatta, you bring up the rear.” The scar-faced warrior nodded, easing his own curved blade. “And keep a watch above,” he finished. Though, he thought, what they could do if someone began dropping boulders or worse on them he could not imagine.

“Shakuru’s Burning Teeth,” Malak said sourly. “We could have been in Arenjun by now.”

Not answering, Conan rode into the narrow opening, and the rest followed. The sky became a thin strip directly overhead, and light faded till it almost seemed twilight was upon them once more. The high walls were barely separated enough to allow horse and rider to pass. Gray stone slid past, often no more than a fingerwidth from knees on either side.

On they rode, twisting, turning, doubling back on themselves, till only Conan’s instincts told him that they still moved westward. The sun stood directly overhead, now, throwing a cascade of fading shadows into the snaking gap.

Suddenly Conan drew rein, his nostrils flaring.

“What is it?” Bombatta called hoarsely.

“Have you no nose?” the Cimmerian demanded.

“Woodsmoke,” Akiro said.

“Aye,” Conan agreed. “And more than a campfire.”

“What do we do?” Malak wanted to know, and Conan snorted with brief laughter.

“What can we do, my friend? We ride on and see what’s burned.”

Three more bends the strait passage took, and then they were out of it. Out of the narrow crack through the mountain, and into a large village that butted against the steep side of the valley. Crude huts lined dusty paths that could not properly be called streets. On the far side of the village Conan noted half-a-score wispy columns of smoke, remnants of whatever had burned. A few naked children yelled and tumbled in the dirt with bony dogs, while their ragged elders, as filthy as the small ones if not more so, stared in dark-eyed surprise and wariness at the newcomers.

“Pull up the hood of your cloak, Jehnna,” the Cimmerian said quietly.

“It is hot,” she protested, but Bombatta jerked the white hood forward, hiding her face in its shade.

Conan nodded. As outlanders they might well have trouble just riding through this village, and most assuredly there was no way around it. There was no need to increase the chance by letting it be known they included a beautiful young girl in their number.

“Do not stop for anything,” he told the others, “until we are well beyond this place. Not for anything.” Resting a hand on his swordhilt, he twitched his reins and started forward. They rode in the same order in which they had traveled the narrow passage.

“Malak,” Akiro said, “if you see something you desire in this place, try not to steal it.”