He accepted a mug of wine from Tamur, then forgot to drink as he listened.
“Five years gone,” the scar-faced nomad began, “the man we call Baalsham appeared among us, he and the two strange men with yellow skins. He performed
some small magicks, enough to be accepted among the tribal shamans, and began to preach much as he does here, of chaos and inevitable doom. Among the young men his teachings caught hold, for he called the western nations evil and said it was the destiny of the Hyrkanian people once more to ride west of the Vilayet Sea. And this time we were to sweep the land clean.”
“A man of ambitions,” Conan muttered. “But failed ambitions, it seems.”
“By the thickness of a fingernail. Not only did Baalsham gather about him young warriors numbering in the thousands, but he began to have strange influence in the Councils of the Elders. Then creatures were seen in the night—like demons, or the twisted forms of men—and we learned from them that they were the spirits of murdered men, men of our blood and friendship, conjured by Baalsham and bound to obey him. Their spying was the source of his powers in the Councils.”
Yasbet made a loud sound of denial through her gag, and shook her head violently, but the men ignored her.
“I’ve seen his sorcery,” Conan said, “black and foul. How was he driven out? I assume he did not leave of his own accord.”
“In a single night,” Tamur replied, “ten tribes rose against him. The very spirits that had warned us, shackled by his will, fought us, as did the young warriors who followed him.” He touched the scar on his cheek. “This I had from my own brother. The young warriors—our brothers, our sons, our cousins—died to the last man, and even the maidens fought to the death. In the end our greater numbers carried the victory. Baalsham fled, and with his fleeing the spirits disappeared before our eyes. To avoid bloodshed among the tribes, the Councils decreed that no man could claim blood right for the death of one who had followed Baalsham. Their names were not to be spoken. They had never existed. But some of us could not forget that we had been forced to spill the same blood that flows in our own veins. When traders brought rumors of the man called Jhandar and the Cult of Doom, we knew him for Baalsham. Two score and ten crossed the sea to seek our forbidden vengeance. Last night we failed, and now we number but nineteen.” He fell silent.
Conan frowned. “An interesting tale, but why have you told it to me?”
The nomad’s face twisted with reluctance. “Because we need your help,” he said slowly.
“My help?” Conan exclaimed.
Tamur hurried on. “When the palace Baalsham was building was overrun, powers beyond the mind were loosed. The very ground melted and flowed like water. That place is now called the Blasted Lands. For three days and three nights the shamans labored to contain that evil. When they had constructed barriers of magic, the boundaries of the Blasted Lands were marked, and a taboo laid. No one of the blood may pass those markers and live. There must be devices of sorcery within, devices that could be turned against Baalsham. He could not have taken all when he fled. But no Hyrkanian may go to bring them out. No Hyrkanian.” He looked at the big Cimmerian with intensity.
“I am done with Jhandar,” Conan said.
“But is he done with you, Conan? Baalsham’s enmity does not wither with time.”
Conan snorted. “What care I for his enmity? He does not know who I am or where I am to be found. Let his enmity eat at him like foxes.”
“You know little of him,” Tamur said insistently. “He—”
With a loud crack the floorboards by Conan’s feet splintered, and a twisted gray-green hand reached through the opening to grasp his ankle.
“The spirits have come!” one of the nomads cried, eyes bulging, and Yasbet began to scream through her gag. The other men drew weapons, shouting in confusion.
Conan scrambled to his feet, trying to pull his leg free, but those leathery fingers held with preternatural strength. Another deformed hand broke through the boards, reaching for him, but his sword leaped from its sheath and arched down. One hand dropped to the floor; the other still gripped him. But at least, he thought, steel would slice them.
With his sword point he pried the fingers loose from his ankle. Even as that hand fell free, though, the head of the creature, with pointed ears and dead, haunted eyes above a lipless gash of a mouth, smashed up through the floor in a shower of splintered wood. Handless arms stretched out to the hands lying on the floor. The mold-colored flesh seemed to flow, and the hands were once more attached to the arms. The creature began to tear its way up into the room, ripping the sturdy floor apart as if its boards were rotted.
Suddenly another set of hands smashed through a wall, seizing a screaming Hyrkanian, tearing at his flesh. Conan struck off the head of the first creature, but it continued to scramble into the room even while its head spun glaring on the floor. A third head broke through the floor, and a hand followed to seize Yasbet’s leg. With a shriek, she fainted.
Conan caught her as she fell, cutting her free of the creature that held her. There was naught to do in that room but die.
“Flee!” he shouted. “Get out!”
Tossing Yasbet over his shoulder like a sack of meal, he scrambled out the window to drop to the street below.
Struggling Hyrkanians fought to follow. Screams from that suddenly hellish room rose to a crescendo, pursuing the big Cimmerian as he ran with his burden. As abruptly as it had begun, the screaming ceased. Conan looked back, but he could see nothing in the blackness.
A low moan broke from Yasbet, stirring on his shoulder. Remembering the tenacity of the hand that had gripped him, he lowered her to the ground and bent to feel along her leg. His fingers encountered the lump of leathery skin and sinew; it writhed at his touch. With an oath he tore it from her flesh and hurled it into the night.
Yasbet groaned, and opened her eyes. “I … I had a nightmare,” she whispered.
“’Twas no dream,” he muttered. His eyes searched the dark for pursuit. “But it is done.” He hoped.
“But those demons … you mean that they were real?” Sobs welled up in her. “Where did they come from? Why? Oh, Mitra protect us,” she wailed.
Clamping a hand over her mouth, he growled, “Quiet yourself, girl. Were I to wager on it, I’d stack my coin on Jhandar’s name. And if you continue screeching like a fishwife, his minions will find us. We may not escape so easily again.” Cautiously he took his hand away; she scrambled to her feet, staring at him.