Conan the Triumphant (Robert Jordan's Conan Novels 4)

“We’ll worry about Iskandrian later,” Conan said. “Karela comes first, and matters even more important than her. How many of the company did you bring, Machaon?”

“Seven, including Narus and myself, all of whom crossed the Nemedian border with us. Two I left to guard Julia. The mood of the others is bad, Cimmerian. You must return now if you mean to hold them together. Karela can take care of herself for a time if any woman can.”

“We found your black picketed with this lot’s mounts,” Narus added.

“Crom!” Conan muttered. The numbers were not enough if they faced what he feared atop Tor Al’Kiir. “We ride for Ianthe, to gather the company and ride out again. No, not to join the nobles. To Tor Al’Kiir. There’ll be time for questions later. To horse, Erlik blast your hides. To horse, and pray to whatever gods you can think of that we are in time.”

19

Iron-shod hooves struck sparks from paving stones as Conan galloped through the dark and empty streets of Ianthe, seven men trailing behind with their cloaks standing out in the wind of their charge. Atop the malevolent granite hump of Tor Al’Kiir torches flickered, distant points of light in the moonless sky mocking his efforts at haste. He cursed to himself, regretting even the time it had taken to bribe the gate-watch for entry.

He wanted to shout at the sleepers who felt a momentary safety behind their walls of brick and stone. Mourning cloths draped from shuttered windows and shrouded public fountains; sprigs of sa’karian, black and white berries intermixed as symbol of death and rebirth, adorned every door. The capital of Ophir mourned its dead King in fear and uncertainty, yet none in that city knew that what they felt was as a flickering lamp flame to the storm-lashed fire-death of a great forest beside the terror that awaited their wakening.

As he galloped through the archway of the house where his company was quartered, Conan bellowed. “To me! Out with you, and to horse! Move, damn you to Zandru’s Hells!” Stillness lay heavily on the blackened building; his words echoed hollowly from the courtyard walls as the others clattered in behind him. “Taurianus!” he called. “Boros!”

A door open with the protest of rusty hinges, showing a tiny light, and four figures moved into the court. Slowly the shadowy shapes resolved into Boros, Julia, and two of his company holding shielded lanterns. The armored men were the two remaining besides those behind him who had come with him from Nemedia.

“Where are the others?” Conan demanded.

“Gone,” Boros answered hollowly. “Taurianus —Erlik roast his soul for eternity—convinced most of them you were dead, since you didn’t return. Half followed him to join the nobles againt Iskandrian. The rest?” His thin shoulders shrugged. “Faded away to hide as best they can. Without you, fear corroded their hearts.”

Conan fought the urge to rain curses upon Taurianus’ head. There was no time; the torches still burned atop the mo

untain. What must be done, must be done with the men he had. But he would lead no man blind to face sorcerers, and perhaps a god.

“Boros,” he said grimly, “tell of Al’Kiir. But briefly, old man. The time of his coming is near, perhaps before first light, if we do not stop it.”

Boros gasped and, tugging at his beard, spoke in a quavering voice, filled with all his years, of days before even ancient Ophir existed and the rites of Al’Kiir, of the Circle of the Right-Hand Path and the imprisonment of the demonic god, of those who would bring the abominable worship again into the world and the god whose horror they celebrated. When he was done there was silence, broken only by the call of an owl. Each man’s breath was audible, and they all spoke of fear.

“If we go to Iskandrian with this tale,” Conan said finally, “he will think it a ruse of the nobles and slay us, or emprison us for madmen until it is too late. But every word is as true and as dire as a spear thrust to the heart. Boros has told you what comes, what fate may lie in store for your sister, or wife or daughter, because she is comely and spirited. I ride to Tor Al’Kiir to stop it. Who rides with me?”

For a long moment only silence answered him, then Julia stepped forward, her chin held high. “If there is no courage among these who call themselves men, at least I will go with you.”

“You will go to your sleeping mat,” Machaon growled, “or I’ll bind you in such a package as Karela made of you, to keep you safe against my return.” The girl moved hurriedly behind Boros, eyeing the grizzled mercenary warily as if unsure how much of his threat he meant. Machaon nodded with satisfaction, then turned in his saddle to Conan. “I’ve seen more of wizards following you, Cimmerian, than one man has a right to expect in a lifetime. But I cannot see that once more will make any difference.”

“An owl calling on a moonless night means death,” Narus said glumly, “but I’ve never seen a god. I, too, ride with you, Cimmerian.”

One by one, then, the other seven mercenaries pledged to follow also, voices cold with humiliation at being surpassed in courage by a girl, with anger and determination to protect some particular woman from the bloody rites. And still with fear. Yet they would come.

Conan eyed their scant number in the pale light of the lanterns and sighed. “We will be enough,” he said, as much to convince himself as anything else, “because we must. We must. Claran, Memtes, get your horses.” The two men named set their lanterns on the ground and ran for the stables. “We ride as soon as they return,” he went on. “We must needs scale the mountain afoot, for our horses cannot climb those slopes, but—”

“Wait, Conan,” Boros broke in. “Make haste slowly, or you but hasten to your death. You must acquire the Staff of Avanrakash.”

“There is no time, old man,” Conan said grimly. He twisted impatiently in his saddle to peer through the night toward the deeper blackness of Tor Al’Kiir. The torch lights still were there, beckoning him, taunting him to his core. What befell Karela while he sat his horse like a statue?

“Do you go forth to confront a lion,” the bearded man chided, “would you then say there was no time to fetch spear or bow? That you must face it with bare hands? You go to face Al’Kiir. Think your courage and steel will avail you against a god? As well slit your own throat right here.”

Conan’s massive hands tightened on the reins in frustration until his knuckles cracked. He did not fear death, though he sought it no more than any other man, but his death would be of no use if Karela were still sacrificed, if Al’Kiir was freed again. Decision came swiftly, spurred by necessity. He tossed his reins to Machaon and dismounted.

“Take my horse with you to the mountain,” he commanded as he tugged his hauberk off over his head. Such work as he had now to do was not best done in armor. He dropped to the gound to pull off his boots. “I will meet you at the crossroads at the foot of the mountain.”

“Do you know where this staff the old man speaks of is to be found?” Machaon asked.

“In the throne room,” Boros said. “By ancient law, at the death of a King the scepter and crown must be left on the throne for nine days and nine nights. Valentius has usurped custom by donning the crown so quickly, but he will not dare flout it altogether.”

“The royal palace!” Machaon exclaimed. “Cimmerian, you are mad to think you can enter there. Come! We will do the best we can with honest steel.”

“I was a thief once,” Conan replied. “Twill not be the first palace I’ve entered by ways other than the door.” Stripped now to his breechcloth, he slung his swordbelt across his massive chest so that his sword hung down his back, dagger and pouch beneath his left arm. Claran and Memtes trotted their horses from the stable, hooves ringing on the thick slates of the court. “I will be at the crossroads, with the staff,” the Cimmerian said, “without fail. Be you there also.”