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

“Come, child,” Taramis said. And, bearing the Horn of Dagoth before her, Jehnna followed toward her destiny.

Treading carefully, silently, Conan made his way down a palace corridor, unheeding of rare Vendhyan carpets on the marble floor or ancient Iranistani tapestries lining the walls where golden lamps flickered. Warily his companions followed him. Taramis’ guards were everywhere. Twice already they had been forced to hide in a crossing hall, Conan gritting his teeth in frustration, while half a score of the black-armored men marched past. As much as urgency spurred him, it would be impossible to engage such a squad without an alarm being given. And Jehnna must be found before any alarm, if there was to be a hope of getting her out alive.

The Cimmerian stepped into the intersection of two corridors, and the creak of leather gave him a chance to live. On either side of him, leaning against the wall where he could not see them before, was a guard in ebon breastplate and nasaled helm. Their hands streaked for their swords as he appeared. There was no time to think of what to do; he must act.

With a two-handed grip on his hilt Conan pivoted to the left, driving his blade through the guard’s breastplate while the other’s sword was yet half-drawn. In one motion he pulled his steel free and continued his spin. The other man had his tulwar drawn, and was making the mistake of raising it to slash rather than thrusting. The tip of Conan’s streaking blade slashed across the undersides of the man’s upraised arms. As the guard jerked his arms down in reflex at the agony, Conan completed his turn, taking a step closer as his sword twisted in a narrow loop and bit deeply into the black helmet. The second corpse struck the marble floor within a heartbeat of the first.

Malak whistled in admiration, and Zula stared in awe. “You are fast,” she breathed. “Never have I seen—”

“These men,” Conan cut her off, “will be found soon, or missed, whether we hide them or not.”

“You mean the ten score guards are going to know we’re here?” Malak’s voice was shrill. “Danh’s Bony Rump!”

“Go back to the dungeon,” Zula said scornfully. “The way out is yet open.”

Malak grimaced, then drew his daggers. “I always wanted to be a hero,” he said weakly.

Conan growled them all to silence. “I mean there is no more time for caution. We must find Jehnna. Quickly.” Like a hunting leopard he sped on, driven by the darkness that thickened the sky outside.

A gasp of awe rose from the assembled priests—all of them were there, now—when the small procession entered the courtyard, and Taramis basked in it. She knew it was for the girl behind her, for the One and the golden Horn of Dagoth that she bore, but she, Taramis, had brought it to be.

The voluptuous noblewoman stepped aside, revealing Jehnna and her burden clearly, and the golden-robed priests fell to their knees. Xanteres, who had exchanged the casket for his tall staff of gold tipped with its azure diamond eye, moved to the other side of the girl, stroking his full white beard in self-satisfaction, to gain his share of the adulation.

“The Sleeping God will never die,” Taramis intoned.

“Where there is faith,” came the response from the kneeling priests, “there is no death.”

She flung wide her arms. “This is the Night of Awakening,” she cried, “for the One has come!” The reply echoed from the walls.

“All glory to the One, who serves the Sleeping God!”

The half score black-armored guards, their spears precisely slanted, but standing well back so as to be out of the way, shifted uneasily. From the colonnade came the piping of flutes, beginning their litany of coming sacrifice and anointment. The velvet black sky arched above, glittering stars set in a pattern they would not attain again for another thousand years. The moment had come.

Power, Taramis thought while the echos still shivered the air. Power and immortality were hers.

Conan slid to a halt as a man stepped into the corridor ahead of him, a man black-armored and even more massive than he, with a naked tulwar in his hand.

“I knew you must come this way, thief,” Bombatta said softly. His scarred face was grimmer than ever before behind the nasal of his sable helm. “When I found the bodies, I knew then that you lived. And I knew you would run to the great court to save her. But if I cannot have Jehnna, no mortal man will have her.” His blade came up, gleaming in the lamplight. “She goes to the god, thief.”

Motioning the others to hang back, Conan moved closer. In the confines of the tapestried hall they could only hinder, not help. The Cimmerian gripped his sword with both hands, holding it erect before him.

“Have you lost your tongue?” Bombatta demanded. “In moments the girl dies in the very center of this palace, I tell you. Rage at your loss, thief. Let me know your despair and lose my own in the slaying of you.”

“This is no time for talking,” Conan replied. “It is a time for dying.”

The two blades moved, then, as one. The clanging of steel on steel filled the hall as they wove a deadly lace between the two big men. Attack and counterattack, thrust and riposte, followed so closely one on the other that it seemed as though lightning flashed and danced.

Abruptly Conan’s broadsword was torn from his grasp. Triumph flared in Bombatta’s face, but even as the blow struck Conan’s foot lashed out, sending the giant Zamoran’s blade spinning. The two men crashed together, grappling. For an instant each strove to reach his dagger, then Bombatta’s huge han

ds closed on Conan’s head and twisted, and the Cimmerian gripped the black helm, one hand on its bottom edge, the other above the dark nasal. Feet shifted and scuffled for balance, and hard-drawn breath was the sound of battle, now. Massive thews bulged, and joints popped with the strain.

A grinding crack sounded, not loud, yet seeming to drown all else, and Conan found that he supported a boneless mass. For an instant he stared into those black eyes, as death filmed them, then let Bombatta fall.

“Time is running out,” Zula said, “and we still do not know where to find her.”

Working his neck, Conan retrieved his sword. “But we do. He told us. The great court in the center of the palace.”

“He also said she was to die in moments,” Malak reminded him.