“But the black-robed one with the yellow skin is mine,” Akeba reminded them. Time and again on the short march he had reiterated his right to vengeance for his daughter.

“The black-robe is yours,” Akman said nervously. “I but wish you could take the demons as well.”

Sharak shook his staff, gripping it with both hands as if it were a lifeline. “I will handle the demons,” he said. “Bring them to me.” A wind from the sea moaned in the treetops as if in answer, and he subsided into mutters.

“Let us be on with it,” Tamur said, fidgeting—whether with eagerness or nervousness, Conan could not tell.

“Stay together,” the Cimmerian said by way of a last instruction. “Those who become separated will be easy prey.” With that he led them down to the towering white wall.

Grapnels taken from the galley swung into the air, clattered atop the wall and took hold. Men swarmed up ropes like ants and dropped within.

Once inside the compound Conan barely noticed the men following him, weapons in hand, falling back on either side so that he was the point of an arrow. His own blade came into his hand. Jhandar. Ignoring other buildings, Conan strode toward the largest structure of the compound, an alabaster palace of golden onion-domes and columned porticos and towers of porphyry. Jhandar would be there in his palace. Jhandar and Yasbet, if she still lived. But first Jhandar, for there could be no true safety for Yasbet until the necromancer was dead.

Suddenly there was a saffron-robed man before him, staring in astonishment at the intruders. Producing a dagger, he screamed, “In the name of Holy Chaos, die!”

A fool to waste time with shouts, Conan thought, wrenching his blade free so the man’s body could fall. And in Crom’s name, what god was this Chaos?

But the noise produced another shaven-headed man, this with a spear that he thrust at Conan, sounding the same cry. The Cimmerian grasped the shaft to guide the point clear of his body; the point of his broadsword ended the strange shout in a gurgle of blood.

Then hundreds of saffron-robed men and women were rushing into the open. At first they seemed only curious, then those nearest Conan saw the bodies and screamed. In an instant panic seized them by the throat, and they became a boiling mass, seeking only escape, yet almost overwhelming those they feared in a tide of numbers.

Forgetting his own instructions to stay together, Conan began to force his way through the pack of struggling flesh, toward the palace. Jhandar, was the only thought in his head. Jhandar.

“Great Lord, the compound is under attack.”

Jhandar stirred fretfully in his communion with the Power. It took a moment for him to pull his eyes from the glowing pool and focus them on Suitai, standing ill at ease in the unnatural glow that filled the chamber.

“What? Why are you disturbing me here, Suitai? You know it is forbidden.”

“Yes, Great Lord. But the attack … .”

That time the word got through to Jhandar. “Attack? The army?” Had disaster come on him yet again?

“No, Great Lord. I know not who they are, or how many. The entire compound is in an uproar. It is impossible to count their numbers. I slew one; he was filthy and half-naked, and bore the welts of a lash.”

“A slave?” Jhandar asked querulously. It was hard to think, with his mind attuned to the communion and that communion not fully completed. “Take the Chosen and dispose of these interlopers, whoever they are. Then restore order to the compound.”

“All of the Chosen, Great Lord?”

“Yes, all of them,” the necromancer replied irritably. Could the man not do as he was told? He must settle his mind, complete his absorption of the Power.

“Then you will delay the ceremony, Great Lord?”

Jhandar blinked, found his gaze drifting to the Pool of the Ultimate, and jerked it back. “Delay? Of course not. Think you I need those fools’ rapturous gazes to perform the rite?” Desperately he fought to stop his head spinning, to think clearly. “Take the Chosen as I commanded you. I will myself bring the girl to the Chamber of Sacrifice and do what is necessary. Go!”

Bowing, the black-robed Khitan sped away, glad to be gone from the presence of that which was bound in that room.

Jhandar shook his head and peered into the pool. Glowing mists filled the limits of the wards,—an unearthly dome that seemed to draw him into its depths. Angrily he pushed that feeling aside, though he could not rid himself of it. He was tired, that was all. There was no need to complete the communion, he decided. Disturbed as he was, completion might take until dawn, and he had no time to wait. The girl must be his tonight. As it was the Power flowed along his bones, coursed in his veins. He would perform the rite now.

Gathering his robes about him, he left to fetch Yasbet and Davinia to the Chamber of Sacrifice.

XXV

Warily, sword at the ready, Conan moved along one wall of a palace co

rridor, with no eye for rich tapestries or ancient vases of rare Khitan porcelain. Akeba stalked along the other, tulwar in hand. As a pair of wolfhounds they hunted.

The Cimmerian did not know where the others were. From time to time the clash of steel and the cries of dying men sounded from outside, or echoed down the halls from other parts of the palace. Who won and who died he could not tell, and at that moment he did not care. He sought Jhandar, and instinct told him he drew closer with every step.

Tags: Robert Jordan Robert Jordan's Conan Novels Fantasy
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