He did not intend to leave the Inner Circle yet, but neither did he believe the boulder would slay the one-eyed beast. He would not believe that being could die until he had seen it dead. Or perhaps it already was; he had seen stranger things. But in the Outer Circle, the unseen things with claws had feared to approach the barrier. Could he reach those deadly wards before the one-eyed creature freed itself, it was possible the monstrous being would not search for him there.
Through curtains of noxious mist Conan ran like a ghostly panther, past pools of bubbling, steaming mud and geysers that sprayed boiling fountains into the night. The columns marking the barrier appeared ahead in the sickly sallow moonlight.
In a silent rush the one-eyed beast hurtled from the fog, lunging for Conan. Desperately the Cimmerian threw himself aside; scythe-like claws ripped across the front of his tunic, slashing it to tatters. He rolled to his feet, broadsword at the ready, facing the towering creature. Rumbling growls sounded deep in the beast’s throat as it edged toward him. It had learned respect for the steel that had taken its hand.
Blood trickled down Conan’s chest from four deep gashes, but that was not what concerned him at the moment, nor even the fangs that hungered for his flesh. Fumbling at his belt with his free hand, he swallowed hard. The pouch was gone, torn away by those dagger claws, and with it the powder he needed to cross the barrier. With the thought his eyes drifted toward the marking columns … and there, at the base of a roughhewn monolith, lay the pouch and his hope of escape.
Slowly, keeping the point of his sword directed at the glowing beast, Conan began to edge sideways towards the crude pillar. The creature hesitated, and a twisted intelligence shone in its eye as it, too, saw the pouch. As if divining the importance of what lay within, the slime-covered giant darted to stand over the small leather sack, almost touching the deadly barrier. Its fanged mouth twisted in what seemed almost a mocking smile.
Thus for the beast fearing the barrier, Conan thought. An it could reason so, it would not leave the pouch for him to find, even did he manage to lead it away. It seemed that Erlik was enfolding his Cloak of Unending Night about him
, yet a man was not meant to accept his own death meekly.
“Crom!” Conan roared, and attacked. “Crom and steel!”
Fangs bared in a snarl the creature dashed to meet him, but Conan did not mean to come to grips with the foul beast. At the last instant he dropped into a crouch, still moving, blade slashing across a belly of deathly argentine flesh covered with glowing slime, and ducked beneath slicing claws that struck only his cloak. For an instant Conan was snubbed short, then cloth ripped, and he was beyond the beast with the tatters of the garment dangling down his back.
Barely slowing, Conan bent to snatch his pouch from the ground, pivoted on one foot, and raced down the line of barrier stones. Stones grated close behind, and the Cimmerian whirled, broadsword striking at a clawed hand descending toward his head. Three cruel-tipped fingers fell, severed, but the mutilated hand slammed into Conan, driving him dazed to his knees.
Then he was enveloped in adamantine arms, being drawn toward the great flesh-rending teeth. Only Conan’s sword arm was free of the unyielding grip, and with it he thrust his blade into that fanged mouth, the point knifing through flesh, grating on bone, bursting through the back of the beast’s great head.
The creature snarled and snapped at the blade, trying with unabated fury to reach the Cimmerian, the stench of its breath flowing into Conan’s nostrils. Like the iron bands of a torture device those huge arms tightened, till Conan thought his spine would snap. No longer could he feel his legs, or his trapped hand. He did not even know if he still held the pouch that contained his sole hope of leaving the Blasted Lands. All he could do was fight with his last measure of strength to keep that ravenous mouth from his throat.
Suddenly there was a greater worry than the beast in Conan’s mind. Over the creature’s shoulder he could see the marking pillars; its struggles were carrying them closer to that deadly shield. And closer. At least he would die with sword in hand, and not alone. Uncertainty flickered in the beast’s blood-red eye as grim laughter burst from Conan’s mouth. Contact with the barrier.
Pain ripped through the Cimmerian, pain such as he had never known. Skin flayed from muscle, muscle torn from bone, bone ground to powder and the whole thrown into molten metal, then the torturous cycle began again. And again. And … .
Conan found himself on the ground, on hands and knees, every muscle quivering with the effort of not falling flat on his face. Through blurred eyes he saw that he still clutched his pouch in a death-grip. He still had his means of escape from the Inner Circle, and in some fashion he had survived touching the barrier, but one thought dominated his swirling brain, the desperate need to regain his feet, to be ready to face the monster’s next attack. His broadsword lay before him. Lurching forward, he grabbed the worn leather hilt, and almost let the blade fall. The leather was cracked and blistering hot.
Abruptly sound crashed in on him, crackling and hissing like a thousand chained lightning bolts, and Conan realized that he had been deaf. Shakily he scrambled to his feet … and stood staring.
The beast lay across the barrier, twitching as scintillating arcs of power rose from one part of its body to strike another. Flames in a hundred hues lanced from the already blacking hulk.
A grin began on the Cimmerian’s face, and died as he stared at the barrier. He was no longer within the Inner Circle. How he had survived crossing the barrier—perhaps the monstrous vitality of the beast had absorbed the greater part of the deadly force, partially shielding him—did not matter. What mattered was that he had but enough of the required powder to cross that boundary once. Did he enter again, he would never leave.
In silence he turned his back on the still-jerking body of the beast, on the Inner Circle, a dark light in his eyes that boded ill.
XXI
Akeba and the others were huddled around a tiny fire when Conan strode out of the Blasted Lands, wiping glittering black blood from his blade with the shredded remnants of his cloak. The Cimmerian announced his presence by tossing the bloody rag into the fire, where it flared and gave off thick, acrid smoke.
All three men leaped, and Sharak wrinkled his nose. “Phhaw! What Erlik-begotten stench is that?”
“We will return to the yurts,” Conan said, slamming his sword home in its shagreen sheath, “but only briefly. I must get Samarra’s help to reenter the Inner Circle.”
“Then you found nothing,” Akeba said thoughtfully. He eyed the dried blood on Conan’s tattered tunic, the pouch crudely tied to his swordbelt, as he added, “Are you certain you want to go back, Cimmerian? What occurred in there?”
Tamur spoke. “No!” Everyone looked at him; he scrubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand before speaking further. “It is a taboo place. Do not speak of what happened within the barriers. It is taboo.”
“Nonsense,” Sharak snorted. “No harm can there be merely in the hearing. Speak on, Conan.”
But the Cimmerian was of no mind to waste time in talk. The night was half gone. With a curt, “Follow me,” he started off into the night. The others kicked dirt over the fire and hurried after.
As soon as they arrived at Samarra’s yurt, Conan motioned the rest to wait and ducked inside.
The interior was dark; not so much as a single lamp was lit, and the big charcoal fire was coal ash. Strange, Conan thought. Samarra, at least, would have remained awake to hear what he had found. Then the unnatural silence of the yurt struck him. There was a hollow emptiness that denied the presence of life. His broadsword eased into his hand almost of its own accord.
He started across the carpets, picking his way among the scattered cushions. Suddenly his foot struck something firmer than a cushion, yet yielding. With a sinking of his stomach, he knelt; his fingers felt along a woman’s contours, the skin clammily cold.