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Conan and the Emerald Lotus by John Hocking
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Prologue

Ethram-Fal stood in the ancient chamber and looked upon bones. Dark and
pitted, they lay strewn in the thick dust of the stone floor. Ruddy
torchlight flared, filling the circular room with leaping shadows. A
tall soldier in full armor stood motionless beside the single doorway,
torch held high in one steady hand.

Ethram-Fal knelt, his gray robes rustling, and pulled an ornate dagger
of irregular shape from a concealed sheath. Though he was a young man,
the sorcerer's hunched and shrunken form gave the impression of great
age. Thin hair of mouse-brown was beginning to grow from a scalp
recently shaved clean. He frowned in contemplation, furrowing his
bulbous and malformed brow. He probed among the bones and dust with the
dagger's tip and felt the slow welling of despair.

It's dead now, he thought. Of course it's dead now, but I had hoped
that there would be something remaining, if only husks. The dagger tip
disturbed the dust of centuries, revealing nothing. Ethram-Fal stood
suddenly, and the soldier with the torch flinched.

"Fangs of Set," he cursed. "Have I come so far for nothing?" His voice
was a hollow echo. The sorcerer looked up. The ceiling of the circular
room was so high that it was lost in the flickering darkness beyond the
torchlight's reach. An even band of engraved hieroglyphics ran around
the walls at twice the height of a man. The markings seemed to writhe
tortuously in the dim light.

"There is no doubt," said Ethram-Fal dully, "this is the room." He
turned, and in doing so set his sandal upon something that gave a
muffled crack. Stepping to one side, he looked down and went rigid.

"Ath, lower the torch." The soldier dutifully lowered the torch to
illuminate the floor while Ethram-Fal knelt again. He had tread upon
what appeared to be a human rib and had snapped it in two. A fine black
powder seeped out of the broken bone. Ethram-Fal gave a choked cry of
triumph.

"Of course! It's gone dormant. It must have absorbed all nourishment
down to the marrow and then spored. Set grant that there is still
life!" He gestured with a gray-clad arm. "Ath, bring my apprentice."

The soldier left the room, the light of his torch receding down the
empty corridor, leaving Ethram-Fal in darkness. But it was not darkness
to Ethram-Fal, who saw his future looming bright and glorious before
him. His breathing quickened, the only sound in the stony silence.

In a few moments Ath returned, his hawk-like Stygian features stern and
impassive. Behind him trailed a slender adolescent boy clad in yellow
robes. Though taller than Ethram-Fal, the top of the boy's tousled head
came to well below Ath's chin. The boy looked about the room with
obvious impatience.

"I was helping the men set up camp in the large chamber," he said
petulantly. "Have you finally found something useful for me to do?"

Ethram-Fal did not reply, but fixed his gaze upon the bones at his
feet.

"Ath," he said, "kill him."

With a single fluid motion the soldier drew his broadsword, buried it
in the youth's belly, twisted it, and withdrew. The apprentice uttered
a high-pitched wail, clutched himself, and dropped to lie writhing
weakly in the dust. When the boy stopped breathing, Ath wiped his blade
upon the body and sheathed it. He looked at Ethram-Fal expectantly. The
hand gripping the torch had not faltered.

The sorcerer produced a thick reddish leaf from a leather pouch on his
belt. He handed it to Ath, who immediately put it into his mouth. The
soldier's eyes closed and his cheeks drew hollow as he sucked upon the
leaf.

Ethram-Fal paid this no heed. Bending at the waist, he gingerly picked
up the broken rib between thumb and forefinger. Tilting the bone with
exaggerated care, he spilled a thin stream of black powder over the
sprawled body of his apprentice. He emptied the macabre vessel,
concentrating its contents on the dark stain spreading upon the
corpse's midriff. When the dust ceased to fall, he tossed the rib aside
and stood staring at the body in silence.

An hour passed, during which Ath chewed and swallowed his leaf and
Ethram-Fal moved not at all. Toward the close of the second hour,
Ethram-Fal cocked his head, as though he sought to hear a soft sound
from a great distance. The body on the floor shuddered and the sorcerer
clasped his hands together in an ecstasy of anticipation.

A moist crackling filled the still air. The corpse jerked and trembled
as though endowed with tormented life. Ethram-Fal caught his breath as
fist-sized swellings erupted all but instantaneously from the dead
flesh of his apprentice. The body was grotesquely distorted in a score
of places, with such swift violence that the limbs convulsed and the
yellow robes ripped open.

Green blossoms the size of a man's open hand burst from the corpse,
leaping forth in such profusion that the body was almost hidden from
view. Iridescent and six-petaled, the blooms pushed free of enclosing
flesh, bobbing and shaking as if in a strong wind. In a moment they
were still, and a sharp, musky odor, redolent of both nectar and
corruption, rose slowly to fill the chamber.

The peals of Ethram-Fal's laughter reverberated from the stone walls
like the tolling of a great bell.


Chapter One
-----------

The night air was warm and close, but it was of polar freshness
compared to the dense atmosphere within the tavern. A stout, sturdily
built man in the mail of a mercenary of Akkharia shoved open the door
and surveyed the scene within. The main room was spacious, but crowded
with a motley variety of locals, mercenaries, and travelers. The
visitor ran a callused hand through his graying hair and scanned the
gathering for the man he'd come to see. In the closest corner a number
of men were throwing dice, alternately crowing in triumph and cursing
in defeat. The center of the sawdust-strewn floor was dominated by a
huge table bearing the nearly denuded carcass of an entire roasted pig.
Men clustered about it, drinking and stuffing themselves.

"Ho, Shamtare!" a voice thundered over the tavern's clamor. There, in
the farthest corner, was the man he sought. Shamtare made his way
across the floor, dodging gesticulating drunks and busy serving wenches
with practiced ease.

The one who had called his name lounged against the tavern's rear wall
with his long muscular legs propped up on a table. He was a hulking,
powerful-looking man whose skin had been burnt to a dark bronze by
ceaseless exposure to the elements. He was clad in a chain-mail shirt
and faded breeches of black cotton. At his waist hung a massive
broadsword in a worn leather scabbard. A white smile split a face that
seemed better suited to scowl, and piercing blue eyes flashed as he
hoisted his wine jug in a rakish salute, gesturing for Shamtare to join
him. The scarred table-top held a loaf of bread and a joint of beef, as
well as heaping platters of fruits, cheese, and nuts. From the crusts
and rinds scattered about, it would seem that a celebration of sorts
had been going on for some time.

"Conan," said Shamtare, "I thought you said your money was running
low."

"So it is," answered the other with a barbarous accent. "What of it?
Tomorrow I shall surely be working for one of this cursed city's
mercenary troops, and tonight I find that I have missed civilization
more than I had realized." The barbarian washed the words down with a
great swallow of wine.

Shamtare sat and helped himself to a handful of ripe fruit. "Traveled
far, have you?" he asked, popping pomegranate seeds into his mouth.

"Aye, from the heart of Kush across the Stygian deserts. It seems that
I'm no longer welcome in the southern kingdoms."

Shamtare raised his thick eyebrows in puzzlement "But surely you are a
Northman…"

"A Cimmerian," said Conan. "But I have done much traveling."

"Indeed," murmured Shamtare, to whom Cimmeria was a chill and distant
place of myth. "But about your choice of mercenary employment…"

Conan took a bite out of the beef joint and chewed enthusiastically.
"Still trying to get me to join your troop?"

Shamtare lifted his hands. "You can't blame me for that. When I saw
your performance on the practice field, I knew that you'd be an asset
to any troop that signed you on. And you know I'm paid a bounty for
each new recruit. I admit that when I asked where you'd be dining
tonight, I had more in mind than tipping a jug with you. I say again
that Mamluke's Legion could well use a man like yourself."

Conan shrugged, shaking his square-cut black mane. "I've been to see
all four troops in this pestilent city, and they all offer the same
wages. The king must keep close watch on his mercenary commanders that
none of them can outbid the other for an experienced soldier. What in
Ymir's name does King Sumuabi need with four troops of sellswords
anyway?"

"The king watches over his mercenaries because he has plans for them."
Shamtare's voice dropped to hushed, conspiratorial tones. "Rumor has it
that Sumuabi may need all four armies very soon."

"Crom, it seems that all you Shemites do is hole up in your little
city-states and venture out once a year to try to conquer your
neighbor. It is but a larger version of the clan feuds of my homeland.
You fight a few battles and then slink back home with nothing gained.
And this with Koth hungering at your border."

"True," said Shamtare tolerantly. "But this time it is whispered that
we may go to aid a revolt in Anakia. Sumuabi may soon king it over two
cities. If this comes to pass, then the plunder should be rich for even
the lowliest foot soldier."

Conan thought on this while Shamtare borrowed the wine jug. "That is
good news, yet it still matters little which troop I join."

"Come now, Conan." Shamtare set the empty jug down with a hollow thump.
"What do you want of me? I tell you, I'm great friends with the troop's
armorer, and I promise you a shirt of the best Akbitanan mail if you
sign up with us. The shirt you're wearing looks as though it's been
through hell."

Conan snorted with laughter, looking down at his tarnished mail. Long
vertical tears in the mesh had been crudely repaired with inferior
links that were beginning to show traces of rust.

"Perhaps not hell itself, but a pig-faced demon from thereabouts. You
have a deal, Shamtare."

The Shemite grinned in his beard, opened his mouth to ask a question,
and then shut it again. The tavern's door had swung wide, and now two
figures entered the room. The foremost was almost as tall as Conan and
clearly a warrior. He wore a black-lacquered breastplate over brightly
polished steel mail. A black crested helmet was held under one thick
arm. Blue-black hair fell in a thick mass over his square shoulders. A
wide white scar parted his carefully trimmed beard just to the right of
his stern mouth. He looked around the room with an almost-tangible aura
of scorn. The crowd in the tavern quieted somewhat at the two men's
arrival, but those who stopped to gaze at the newcomers did not study
the warrior but his companion.

The man who stood in the dark doorway was also tall, but he was
somewhat stooped as though ill or injured. From head to foot he was
wrapped in a cowl of lush green velvet. His hands, where they emerged
from their sleeves, wore green-velvet gloves. His face was hidden in
the shadow beneath his hood.

The strange pair hesitated a moment, then walked quickly through the
tavern's crowd, which parted easily before them. They passed through a
door into a back room and were lost from view.

"Who the hell was that?" asked Conan, reaching for the jug-

"Someone best left unknown," said Shamtare softly.

"No matter. What's this? No wine? Ho, wench!" Conan brandished the
empty jug above his head. "More wine! I'm parched!" Spurred by the
barbarian's bellow, a serving girl leapt into action. Hefting a full
jug onto one shoulder, she made her way toward Conan's table. Her thin
cotton shift, damp with sweat and spilt wine, clung to her shapely
torso as she moved. The barbarian grinned broadly, watching her
approach with frank admiration. Blushing, she thumped the heavy jug
down on the table, her eyes seeking the floorboards.

"Five coppers, milord," she murmured.

"A silver piece," said Conan. He tossed her the coin, which she
snatched from the air with the effortless speed born of long practice.
"Keep the change," he added needlessly, for she had already turned
away. He caught up the fresh jug as a heavy hand fell upon his
shoulder. Conan looked up into the craggy face of the black-armored
warrior who had entered With the man clad in emerald velvet.

"My master would speak with you," rasped the warrior. Conan shrugged
off his hand and turned to face Shamtare.. But the chair across the
table was empty. Conan noticed that the tavern door was just swinging
shut.

"Mitra preserve me from civilized comrades," muttered the barbarian.

"You would be wise to do exactly as my master requests." The warrior
towered over the seated Cimmerian, the scar in his beard broadening as
his lips tightened in a disapproving grimace. Reflected firelight
gleamed upon his lacquered breastplate. Conan took several slow, noisy
swallows of wine, pointedly ignoring his unwanted companion, then
carefully set the jug down on the table.

"Am I a dog that I come when a stranger calls?"

The warrior started slightly, then drew a deep, audible breath in an
obvious effort to control himself. His dark eyes glared into Conan's,
blazing with pent fury, then flicked away.

"There is," he bit out through clenched teeth, "… there is gold in it
for you. Much gold."

Conan belched, then stood up casually, still grasping the neck of his
wine jug. "You should have said so in the first place. Lead on to your
master.

The warrior stood still, his expression betraying an indignant rage
held in place by will alone; then he turned stiffly and walked toward
the door at the tavern's rear. He looked back over one armored
shoulder.

"You won't be needing that," he said, pointing to the jug Conan
carried.

The Cimmerian took another drink, walking past the warrior. "I just
bought it." He put a hand on the heavy door and pushed through.


Chapter Two
-----------

The room beyond the door was long and narrow, dominated by a lengthy
rectangular table set with three brass candelabra. All four walls were
hung with dark curtains thickly woven with brocade to deaden sound. At
the table's far end the man in the green-velvet cowl sat motionless in
a high-backed chair. The candle flames danced briefly in the draft from
the opened door. Conan strode into the room, stopped at the base of the
table, and looked down its length at the man who had summoned him.

"You are Conan of Cimmeria." The voice was strong and masculine, yet
possessed a peculiar underlying tremor, as if it took an effort to
speak.

"I am," rumbled the barbarian. "And who are you?"

The dark-armored warrior pushed the door closed behind him and stepped
up beside the Cimmerian.

"Dog," gritted the bearded warrior, "you are here to answer questions,
not to ask them."

"Gulbanda!" The cowled man raised a green-gloved hand and Conan saw
that it trembled. "Come stand beside me. I'll make a few indulgences
for a simple barbarian." The warrior stalked to his master's side and
stood there sullenly, mailed arms crossed over his deep chest.

"Who I am is of little importance to you. It is important only that you
know that if you perform a service for me, I shall make you a rich
man," said the man in green.

"Why me?"

Hoarse, wheezing laughter came from within the velvet hood. The green
man gestured to Gulbanda beside him.

"My bodyguard spotted you coming into Akkharia and recognized you. I
have since done some investigating of my own and found that you may
well live up to your distinctive reputation."

"Recognized me?" Conan's blue eyes shifted hotly from one man to the
other.

"Some years ago I saw you taken by the City Guard of Shadizar. Men knew
you as a great thief." Gulbanda spoke with reluctance, apparently
finding even secondhand praise of the Cimmerian distasteful. The man in
velvet leaned forward intently, placing both hands flat upon the table.

"It is said that you stole the Eye of Erlik and the Hesharkna Tiara. An
old Zamoran thief even told me that you had taken the Heart of the
Elephant from Yara's tower in Arenjun."

"That's a lie," said Conan flatly.

"No matter," purred the man in green. "No matter. Let us simply agree
that you are a thief among thieves and that I need such a man. I will
pay you a hundredfold more for one night's work than you would receive
for a full month of selling your sword as a lowly mercenary for King
Sumuabi."

Conan dragged a chair away from the table and sat down heavily. He
drank from his wine jug and leaned back in the chair.

"What is it that you would have me do?"

The green man produced a rolled scroll of parchment from a sleeve and
slid it down the length of the table to Conan, who caught and unrolled
it.

"That is a precise map of the mansion of Lady Zelandra. Do you know of
her?"

"She is a sorceress seeking position in King Sumuabi's court, is she
not?" Conan's tone was skeptical.

"That is true. Since the death of King Sumuabi's court wizard, several
pretenders to his position have come forward. Lady Zelandra is among
them. Be assured that her skills are greatly overrated."

The barbarian frowned and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Talk of
magic set him ill at ease.

"Cimmerian," continued the man in green, "tonight you shall break into
the house of the Lady Zelandra. There you will slay her and steal for
me a silver box. The box is the twin of this one."

A delicately chased silver casket, the size of a man's fists held
together, was placed upon the table. It gleamed in the yellow
candlelight.

"I am told by a most reliable source that Zelandra's box is like my own
in every detail. It is vital that you secure this small casket and
bring it directly to me. You may take anything else in the mansion that
catches your eye. Anything else is yours. The casket will be kept in
her inner chambers, probably beside her bed. I must have it."

As he spoke, the man in green's voice grew louder, and his words
tumbled urgently over one another. When he stopped, "his breathing was
raggedly distinct in the soundproofed room. His gloved, hands twitched
where he held them on the table.

Conan drew himself up straight in his chair. A corded forearm slid
slowly along its armrest until the Cimmerian's right hand hung idly
over the worn hilt of his broadsword.

"For all your studies you seem to know me not at all," Conan said
tersely. "I am not an assassin, nor do I make war upon women. Seek
another for this task." The green-cowled man flinched as if slapped.
Beside him, Gulbanda's features hardened into a mask of rage.

"I will pay," croaked the green man in a strangled voice, "a roomful of
gold. You'll never need to work again. You could be a rich man, with
the leisure to wench and carouse the rest of your life."

Gulbanda's arms dropped to his sides and Conan's hand fell upon his
hilt. A deadly tension coiled in the closed room, poisonous as an
adder.

"Seek another for this task," repeated the barbarian.

"You would deny me?" The cowled man's tone fell to a caustic hiss. "So
be it. Think you that my investigations halted with your career as a
thief? I know well your whereabouts these past few years, Amra! There
is no city in Shem that would not gleefully hang the bloodiest pirate
of the Western Ocean from a gibbet! You will do as I say or I'll see
that you spend your last days in the hands of King Sumuabi's Sabatean
torturers!"

Conan's response was an explosive burst of action that sent his chair
hurtling back against the door as he sprang forward, toward the two
men, his blade whistling from its scabbard. The man in green cried out
in wordless shock, falling sideways from his chair even as Gulbanda
stepped in to shield him from the infuriated barbarian. The bodyguard's
blade came out just as Conan's came down. Steel rang on steel as
Gulbanda blocked the heavy broadsword's stroke, staggering under the
terrific impact. The warrior had barely time to be astonished at his
adversary's strength before he found himself frenziedly fending off a
flurry of savage blows. Wielding his massive blade as lightly as if it
were a slender rapier, the Cimmerian put the bodyguard on a desperate
defensive, driving him back against the curtained wall and holding him
there. Gulbanda, trapped in a relentless storm of steel, saw Conan's
face go grim with intent and felt a chill lance his bowels. The
bodyguard blocked each sledgehammer blow by inches, hoping that the
barbarian's strength would falter or that the raging attack would flag,
if only for a moment.

Abruptly, his wishes were granted as Conan seemed to overextend
himself. A hard horizontal slash glanced from Gulbanda's guard and
swung wide, leaving the barbarian's torso open to a thrust. As the
bodyguard lunged forward to transfix the Cimmerian on his point,
Conan's sword reversed itself with impossible speed. The barbarian's
blade struck the hilt and the fist that gripped it, tearing the sword
and two fingers from Gulbanda's hand on a flying ribbon of blood. The
warrior fell back against the wall with a howl of animal agony,
clutching his mangled hand and tangling himself in the drapery. With
feline suppleness Conan spun about to face his second foe.

The man in the green cowl stood weaponless beside his chair. His right
hand made a sudden throwing motion and something tinkled against the
mail over Conan's chest. The barbarian recoiled.

He looked down and saw that there was moisture shining on his breast
and broken slivers of glass glittering upon the floor. A wave of
dizziness swept through his frame and a sharp, sweet odor filled his
nostrils. Conan took a staggering step forward, raising a sword grown
almost too heavy to hold. His foe had become an emerald blur.

"Damn you," he whispered through lips gone numb. The earth tilted
violently beneath his feet, and he never felt himself hit the floor.


Chapter Three
-------------

Shamtare sat in the corner of a bar he didn't know and drank wine
without tasting it. He stared into his chipped ceramic mug, taking no
notice of those around him. The mercenary had walked into the first
tavern he had found, sat down, and commenced drinking in earnest. Since
then his fear had faded, replaced by a searing shame.

Shamtare the Shemite had been a mercenary for almost twenty-five years
and feared no combatant who would confront him with muscle and steel.
He had seen violence aplenty in more battles than he could remember.
But ever since he had watched half his troop.swallowed screaming by a
black cloud conjured up by a Zuagir shaman, Shamtare had no love of
sorcery. It was unnatural, unmanly, and it turned his bones to water.

The mercenary took another deep pull at his wine, feeling a little less
than manly himself.

"Ho, white brother." A dark figure sat at his table, pulling up a chair
and leaning forward confidentially. Shamtare blinked, setting his cup
down. The newcomer was a slim Kushite in the brightly decorated armor
of the mercenary company of Atlach the Mace. A thick cluster of fat
braids was bound behind his head. Crimson-dyed ostrich feathers were
woven into the shoulders of his white cloak.

"Have you looked about yourself, friend?" The black's voice was deep
and vaguely amused. 'This tavern is frequented by those riding for
Atlach the Mace. Do you see anyone from Mamluke's outfit except
yourself?"

Shamtare took in his surroundings for the first time. His stomach
clenched.

"Indeed," continued his new companion, "do you see anyone of your color
at all?" He waited for the Shemite to shake his head in response. "Now,
all's the same to me. We fight for the same king, and against the same
enemies, yet there are those who see all freelance troops as rivals. In
fact, some of the men here are of such a mind. Thus far only your
graying hair has kept you from being accosted by these characters. Be
wise, white brother, and take your thirst elsewhere."

Shamtare stood, touched his brow in a salute, and headed for the door.
The night breeze was cool along the dim street. He walked to the corner
and found himself looking for a tall barbarian among the passersby. He
could stand no more. Setting his teeth, Shamtare walked back to the
tavern in which he had met Conan the Cimmerian. He thrust thoughts of
the green-clad man from his mind as he strode in the door.

The tavern was quieter now, as the dinner hour was past and the greater
revels of the evening were yet to commence. The roast pig was gone from
its table, and many of the torches had been allowed to burn low. The
gamblers in the corner were still busy, but now they wagered in softer,
more earnest tones. Shamtare saw no sign of the barbarian. He hailed
the barkeep.

"Good evening. Might I have a word with you?"

"If you don't dally about it. I've a tavern to run." The barkeep mopped
at his balding pate with a greasy rag. A tattered yellow beard could
not obscure his sagging jowls and sour expression.

"There was a tall, black-haired barbarian in here earlier. Did you see
him leave?"

"I saw no barbarian. It's bad business to carry tales about customers."
The barkeep turned as if to walk away from Shamtare, but the
mercenary's hand fell upon his shoulder and arrested his progress.

"A moment more," said Shamtare quietly. "What is that room in the back
for?"

"Private parties for paying customers. Take your hand off me."

"Who paid for its use tonight?"

"Take your hand off me, mercenary, or I'll tell my sons to call the
city guard." Shamtare's hand dropped away from the barkeep's shoulder
and fell upon the hilt of his sword.

"I don't know the man's name," continued the barkeep hastily. "I just
know that he has had his way in this part of the city for almost three
moons. He is said to be a wizard, and his gold is good. These are
reasons enough for me to rent him the room and leave him in peace."

Shamtare turned from the barkeep and made his way to the rear of the
tavern. His sword whispered from its sheath as he hit the door to the
back room. He almost tripped over a fallen chair that lay just within.
Three brightly lit candelabra were set upon the room's central table.
Their warm glow revealed an empty chamber.

Dark blood shone wetly on the carpet, and more spattered the woven
curtains. The point of Shamtare's sword lowered to the floor. He made
his way quickly across the room, to where the drapes hung awry behind
the high-backed chair. A door was concealed there, obscured by the
curtains. It swung open at his touch, revealing a black alley, choked
with stinking refuse. Shamtare thrust his head into the dark passage,
looked about, and swore foully.

"Lose your barbarian friend?" The barkeep had followed him into the
chamber. His voice was not unsympathetic. "It wouldn't be the first
time that someone had audience with the Green Man and wasn't seen
again. I won't even let the serving girls come back here anymore. It is
said that the Green Man wishes to become King Sumuabi's new mage and
will let nothing stand between himself and his goal. I'm sorry about
your friend. A wise man doesn't trifle with sorcery."

"I know that," said Shamtare.

"Come, there is nothing to be done now. Perhaps the Green Man hasn't
slain him. I'll buy you a mug of wine."

"Damn." Shamtare sheathed his sword.

"That's better," said the barkeep. "Was the barbarian an old friend of
yours?"

"No, a new friend who'll never get to be an old one."

"Forget him, then. His turn today, our turn tomorrow. Come on."

The stout mercenary followed the barkeep from the back room to the bar.
He took a seat and accepted the man's offer of a mug of wine. Shamtare
recognized the vintage as one of the best out of Ghaza, yet it seemed,
at that moment, strangely bitter.


Chapter Four
------------

The first thing that Conan became aware of was a sultry breeze smelling
of moist earth. He blinked and a vortex of nausea roiled in his guts.
He was seated in a heavily built steel chair. Metal bands held his
ankles, calves, wrists, and belly tightly in place. Slouched forward,
his head hanging, Conan focused his bleary eyes and saw that the chair
was bolted to the chamber's glossy marble floor. He had vague memories,
little more than disjointed impressions, of being dragged along a
noisome alleyway before being tossed bodily into a wagon full of damp
straw.

A gust of warm air stirred his hair, and he raised his head with
ponderous effort in order to look about. Before him, bronze-bound
double doors of glass opened out into the night, revealing a shadowed
garden that sloped down and away. Beyond, through a screen of trees,
the lights of Akkharia lay spread out like spilled gems on an ebony
table. There was no moon, but the stars told him that it was almost
midnight.

"Awake, dog?" There were footfalls behind him. It was Gulbanda, his
right hand bound in a white bandage. He walked a leisurely circle
around the helpless Cimmerian, who silently set all of his strength to
testing his bonds. The bodyguard saw the powerful muscles of Conan's
arms and legs leap out into ridged relief and laughed humorlessly. His
dark eyes flashed in the dim room.

"You cannot break free. Your efforts would be better spent begging me
to make your death swift and easy." Gulbanda drew to a halt in front of
the.barbarian and pulled a dagger from its sheath with great
deliberation. Conan relaxed, staring straight ahead in stoic silence.
The bared blade made a silvery flourish before the Cimmerian's
expressionless face.

"Speak." The dagger came forward until its point indented the skin
beneath Conan's right eye. "You have nothing to say?"

Gulbanda moved the blade to the barbarian's forearm and lay the cold
steel on bronzed skin. "Why don't you beg your heathen gods for rescue?
They might answer if you cried out to them loudly enough."

The razor-sharp edge drew slowly across flesh and a thin scarlet stream
broke free in its wake. Conan bared his teeth in a feral snarl, fixing
his eyes upon Gulbanda with such elemental hatred that his tormentor
withdrew the knife and took an involuntary step backward.

"Gulbanda, you are mistreating our guest." The dagger made a hasty
return to its sheath as the warrior retreated to a dark corner of the
room.

"I did him no harm," he said in a voice thick with frustration.

"I should hope not," said the man in the green cowl. "He has important
work to do tonight." The robed man stood over Conan, inspecting the
shallow but painful gash inflicted by his servant. The hood lay in
heavy folds about his shoulders, baring his head. He was a black man
with sharp, aristocratic features. A high-domed forehead and a strong
jaw might have made him handsome, but there was a weathered, weary
aspect to his face that belied his obvious youth. The eyes were as
rheumy and reddened as those of an old man. The skin of his face
appeared to hang on his skull, slack and dull as a mask. Conan noticed
a greenish smear beneath his captor's lower lip. Under the barbarian's
gaze, he turned away as if ashamed, wiping his mouth on a velvet
sleeve.

"You must learn to show restraint, Gulbanda. This man is a valuable
tool. If you treat your tools well, they will serve you well." The
black man turned back to Conan, pulled a lace handkerchief from his
robe, and daubed it gently in the blood on the Cimmerian's forearm.
Folding the cloth with care, he replaced it in his pocket. He gazed
down at Conan, his eyes dark wells of fathomless emotion.

"I am Shakar the Keshanian. Do you know me?"

"No, but you must be another who seeks to become King Sumuabi's toy
mage. What did you do to me?"

"You have some wit for a barbarian. I broke a glass ball upon your
breast. The ball was filled with a weak distillate of the Black Lotus.
The fumes produce unconsciousness but do no lasting harm. You will feel
dizzy and ill for a time, though. I hope that this will not
inconvenience you on your mission tonight."

Conan spat at Shakar's feet. "Get your lapdog to run your errands." He
jerked his head toward Gulbanda. "I'll not serve you."

Shakar nodded absently, pressing gloved hands together and turning away
from his prisoner. He strode to a low chest of drawers set against one
of the marble walls.

"The priests of Keshia had little liking for me," he said thoughtfully.
"They made my life difficult. So before I left that city I stole much
knowledge from them. Much knowledge and several precious items to make
my life outside Keshan easier. The glass balls are one thing I
acquired. These are another." Shakar arose from the chest and held his
hands out to Conan.

Suspended from each fist was an amulet the size and shape of a hen's
egg. They were the color of tarnished brass and inscribed in black with
a single serpentine rune. Instead of a chain, each amulet dangled from
a flexible loop of thin golden wire. With a quick motion, Shakar
flipped one wire noose over the top of Conan's head and released it.
The strange pendant fell heavily upon the Cimmerian's breast. The black
warlock leaned forward, pulling the barbarian's long hair out from
beneath the encircling wire until the metal rested against his flesh.

"There," he murmured. "There." He stroked the amulet lovingly. Then his
eyes narrowed, his lips tightened against his teeth, and he bent over
to stare Conan full in the face.

"Hie Vakallar-Ftagn," he whispered in a voice like the stirring of dead
leaves. Conan went rigid. The wire necklace contracted around his neck
until the cold weight of the amulet nestled unpleasantly into the
hollow of his throat. A thrill of horror coursed along the barbarian's
spine. Shakar stood up straight and grinned in satisfaction. He held
the other amulet away from his velvet-clad body.

"Now you shall do as I require, barbarian. You must do it because your
life will be forfeit if you do not. This night you will go to the
estate of Lady Zelandra, slay her, and steal for me her silver casket.
And you shall have it back here by sunrise, thief, or I will speak to
your amulet thus."

Held at arm's length, Shakar's remaining pendant swung slowly on its
necklace of wire. The man in green stared at it and spoke.

"Hie Vakallar-Nectos." His voice died and there was an expectant
silence. Then the dangling amulet flared with white incandescence and a
sharp sizzling sound filled the room. A wave of heat hit Conan's face
like the rush of, air from an opened forge. The blaze of light stabbed
fiercely at his eyes. For a moment the amulet hung from its wire as a
fusing gobbet of nigh-intolerable brilliance; then it fell in a molten
stream to spatter brightly on the polished floor. Acrid smoke arose in
whorls as the liquid metal gnawed into the marble. It burned out after
a long moment, leaving the floor deeply pitted and scarred. A shrill
laugh broke from Shakar's lips.

"O Damballah! An ugly way to die, is it not? If you are not back by
sunrise, I speak the words. If you attempt to remove the amulet, it
will blaze up of its own accord. If you displease me in any way, I
shall speak the words. Do you understand?" Mad triumph trembled in the
warlock's voice. In the corner, Gulbanda moved uneasily. "Let him
loose," Shakar ordered.

"Master?" Gulbanda hesitated and Shakar spun on him in sudden fury,
cloak swirling.

"Now, fool!" The warrior hastened to Conan's side and bent to his task.
In a moment the barbarian was free of the steel chair, if not of all
bonds. He stretched hugely, bending to chafe his legs where the metal
cuffs had cut into his flesh.

"Do you know the Street of the Seven Roses?" asked the black sorcerer.

Conan nodded curtly. "It is where they store the shipments of wine in
from Kyros."

"That is the warehouse district. Zelandra's mansion is in the
residential district at the opposite end of the street. Across the city
from the warehouses. It is a respectable area and often patrolled by
the city guard."

"It has a very high wall," said Gulbanda coldly. "A smooth one." Conan
met the bodyguard's eyes with a gaze as bleak and stark as the blade of
a stiletto.

"I want my sword," he said.

Shakar nodded. "Of course. Fetch it, Gulbanda." For a moment the
warrior seemed to pause, then he strode quickly from the room. The
black mage looked upon Conan and lifted his gloved hands imploringly.

"Do you need to see the map again?"

"No. Do you give me your word that if I bring you the casket, you will
remove this thing?" The barbarian touched the amulet about his neck as
though it were a sleeping serpent coiled there.

"I swear it. And if it happens that you do not slay the woman, I shall
still free you if you bring me the silver box. I must have it. Do you
understand?"

The Cimmerian showed his teeth in a mirthless grin. "I understand that
well enough."

"Another thing, barbarian, do you know of a Shemite named Eldred the
Trader?" Shakar watched Conan intently for a reaction and was visibly
disappointed by his reply.

"No. The name means nothing. Another of your rivals seeking position as
the king's court wizard?"

"No. It need not concern you." At that moment Gulbanda returned,
bearing Conan's sword and scabbard.

He tossed them roughly to the Cimmerian, who snatched them from the air
and affixed them to his belt while moving toward the garden window.

"Remember the amulet. Do not fail me," called Shakar, but Conan had
already stepped into the night and disappeared.


Chapter Five
------------

The great wagon lumbered along the Street of the Seven Roses beneath
the overarching darkness of a moonless night. Massively spoked wheels
ground on the cobblestones as the driver reined his team around a bend.
Two huge wooden casks sat ponderously in the wagon's bed, their weight
causing the wagon to sag alarmingly. The driver called encouragement to
his straining horses and, thus distracted, did not notice the shadow
that detached itself from the murk of an alley to furtively sprint
across the cobbles and leap up onto the back of the rearmost cask,
clinging to it like a cat. The man held himself to the curved surface
of the massive barrel with powerful arms as the wagon continued its
laborious progress. In the next block a high wall arose on the left
side of the street. Seeing it, the man drew himself lithely atop the
cask and crouched with his legs drawn up tightly beneath him. He
swiftly removed a light leather helmet tucked into his belt at the
small of his back and clapped it onto his head.

The wagon swayed, drawing closer to the wall. Its wheels scraped the
stone curb and the man jumped, hurling himself into the air with all
the strength of his mighty frame. Like a quarrel from" a crossbow, the
man shot up and against the wall. His body met it with bruising impact,
hands clapping against the cold stone with the fingertips alone finding
purchase and digging in atop the wall. He dangled, breath hissing
between clenched teeth. Then he chinned himself, threw over a muscular
leg and pulled himself up so that he was lying along the top of the
wall. He lay motionless for a moment, waiting for the surging vertigo
to pass. It seemed that Shakar's Keshanian drug had not entirely left
him. He shook his head like a troubled lion, trying to rid himself of
the persistent dizziness and see into the darkness below.

An elaborate garden lay spread out in the shadows beneath him. Dim,
tangled outlines of trees and undergrowth led up a gentle, landscaped
slope to an expansive villa that loomed as an unlit and angular
silhouette against the stars. The perfume of night-blooming flowers
floated on the slow breeze.

Conan stood on the narrow top of the wall. Heedless of the height, he
ran swiftly along it to where a tall tree thrust leafy branches toward
the wall. He squatted, peering intently into the tree, then leapt
abruptly from his perch, dropping down and forward to capture a sturdy
limb in iron fingers. Leaves shook and rustled as the branch bent and
then rebounded, holding his weight. The Cimmerian glanced down, then
released the limb. He dropped, hit the ground, and rolled in the dewy
grass. Conan came to his feet in a fighting crouch, hand on hilt and
eyes raking the darkness for sign of a foe.

He was alone on a well-trimmed greensward. In front of him two dense
clumps of shrubbery framed a white gravel path that shone dully in the
starlight. The path wound up the hill toward the dark mass of Lady
Zelandra's mansion. The barbarian moved parallel with the trail,
skulking in the shadows as silently as a prowling wolf. Skirting a
tiled courtyard adjacent to the manse, Conan approached a darkened
window and froze in mid-stride.

Footfalls rattled gravel along the path. Conan ducked into the shadow
of a manicured hedge, hand once again gripping his hilt. Two uniformed
men walked into view along the trail. They conversed softly, voices
carrying on the night air. The Cimmerian crouched motionless as the
pair came to a halt not ten paces away. The men wore light armor with
shortswords belted at the waist, and the larger of the two bore a long,
barbed pike on one shoulder. Conan's body tensed, preparing for instant
violence. The pike bearer produced a wineskin from beneath his cloak,
drank deeply and passed it to his companion. The other took a swallow
and returned the skin, clapping his comrade on the back with crude good
humor. The pair continued down the path, blithely unaware of how close
they had stood to death.

Conan relaxed, once again feeling a slight stirring of vertigo. He
cursed vehemently under his breath until it passed, calling down a
plague upon all dabblers in the dark arts. Then he stole silently
across me grass to the waiting window. The stout shutters were thrown
wide to allow the cool air of evening to ease the day's accumulated
heat.

There were bars, but they were slender. Inevitably there was some
noise, but Conan worked slowly and with great deliberation, bending the
bars rather than tearing them from their settings. Soon he had a space
wide enough to squeeze through. With a last look behind, he pulled
himself through the window and into the mansion of Lady Zelandra.

He dropped into a long hall lit by a single taper. The floor was
thickly carpeted, and rich Vendhyan tapestries graced the walls. The
faint odor of sandalwood hung on the still air. Silence lay over the
house in a heavy shroud.

Recalling the map that Shakar had shown him, Conan took his bearings
and then paced soundlessly down the dim hall. He drew his sword, and
the taper's soft light glimmered liquidly along its burnished length.
Ahead, the corridor turned right. At the corner a short pedestal held
an elegantly fluted vase of Khitan porcelain. Conan rounded the corner
and stared down a wood-paneled hall that stretched into the heart of
the manse. Another lonely taper lit the corridor with a diffuse amber
glow.

A woman stood stiffly in the hallway, looking at him.

"Hush!" Conan lowered his sword and lifted a finger to his lips. "I
mean you no—"

The woman quickly reached a hand behind her dark nimbus of hair, then
whipped the hand forward with all the strength of her arm and
shoulders. A dagger shot toward Conan as swiftly and directly as a
hurled dart.

"Crom!" The barbarian twisted his upper body so that the blade nicked
his flapping sleeve in passing rather than burying itself between his
ribs. The dagger sank almost half its length into the wooden wall five
paces behind him.

Conan lunged forward, covering the distance between himself and the
woman in two great bounds. An outstretched forearm struck her across
the collarbone, knocking her from her feet and sending her sprawling
gracelessly on her back. The Cimmerian's sword made a short, blurred
arc that stopped a hairsbreadth from her exposed neck. Cold, sharpened
steel lay upon her pulsing throat.

"Hush," said Conan grimly.

"Miserable thief!" hissed the woman. "Damned assassin! Kill me and be
done with it!"

The barbarian raised his brows. Here was a beautiful woman. And
unafraid. Her thick hair spilled upon the carpet, an ebony cloud
surrounding a fine-boned face now sneering in defiance. Her pale eyes
shone in the gloom like polished opals.

"I have no wish to harm you or anyone else in this house." Conan
stepped back, keeping his sword leveled at the prone woman, but
removing it from her throat. She sat up, twisting full lips with
disdain.

"You're mad, then."

"No. I am not here of my own choosing. My life is in the balance. If
you will aid me, I will be swiftly gone." Conan's hand went to the
eldritch amulet wired at his throat. The dark-haired woman drew long
legs up beneath her and regarded him steadily.

"I should scream. I am not afraid to die."

"Then why are you whispering?"

She was silent a moment.

"What is it that you seek?" she asked suddenly, her voice slightly
louder and more animated than before. "Are you alone? How can I help
you?" Her gaze flickered from Conan's face to a point somewhere over
his right shoulder. From behind him came the almost inaudible creaking
of a floorboard.

Conan spun about and received a blow to the head so savage that it tore
off his helmet and sent him reeling blindly across the hall. His
shoulder hit the wall with a crash that seemed to shake the building.
Stinging blood sluiced hotly into his left eye. Snarling, the barbarian
lashed his sword to the left and right, but the blade met no
resistance. He blinked, shaking the blood from his face.

Across the hall stood a giant of a man, naked to the waist. The taper's
light gleamed upon his skin, casting yellow highlights over heavy arms
and a wide, hairless chest that descended into a broad, firm paunch.
The man's head was shaved and his features were those of a pure-blooded
KM tan. In his hands was a short wooden club, its head adorned with
iron studs. The man was silent, but he brandished the club with casual
purpose, slanted eyes glittering coldly.

Conan struck with furious speed, taking the offensive with such
suddenness that the giant Khitan was nearly impaled upon his sword.
With an agile twist of his brawny body, the Khitan battered the
barbarian's blade aside so that it scraped its length along the wooden
bludgeon, throwing splinters. Unable to halt his headlong thrust,
Conan's body slammed into that of his foe. They grappled, and the
Khitan sought to seize his sword arm. With an explosive grunt, Conan
tore free of the powerful grip and drove his mallet-like left fist home
against the side of his enemy's face. Despite the unexpectedness of the
move, the Khitan managed to react, attempting to roll with the blow. If
he had not, it might well have broken his neck. Even the reduced impact
drove him to one knee and started blood streaming from his lips.

As the Cimmerian's sword shot up for the death stroke, a tremendous
blow struck the back of his skull. Vision ablaze with flying yellow
sparks, Conan went down, his blade thumping on the carpet. In an
exhibition of almost superhuman vitality, the barbarian writhed
painfully onto his back. Through a thickening haze he saw the
dark-haired woman, gaping at him, clutching a sturdy chair. Two of its
legs were splintered stumps. The stinging sweet taste of Shakar's
potion crept into the back of his throat like bile. Conan tried to rise
and felt a sick vertigo, a drugged dizziness that' rose from within to
smother him in cloying darkness. He reached for his sword, put his hand
on the hilt, and passed out.


Chapter Six
-----------

There was stale straw in his mouth. The floor where he lay was strewn
with the mildewed stuff. With effort, Conan spat, pushed himself into a
sitting position, spat again, and leaned back against a dank stone
wall. Though his head throbbed like a blacksmith's anvil, he put his
hands first to his throat.

Shakar's lethal amulet was still in place, still promising searing,
lingering death. Conan probed his battered skull with tentative
fingers. Drying blood matted his hair over two conspicuously swollen
lumps. He pressed his fingertips around them and winced, but found no
evidence of serious damage. Satisfied, he cast his eyes about his
prison.

It was a narrow, windowless slot of a cell, a little longer than the
prone body of a tall man and barely wide enough for two men to stand
abreast. The door was a heavily barred iron grate, scaled with flakes
of red rust.

Conan wondered how long he had until morning. A hollowness opened deep
in his belly. To be incinerated by magic while locked in a cage like a
helpless animal was no way for a warrior to die.

He saw that the iron bars of the grate were far too thick for bending
and that the hinges were set too deeply in stone to be wrenched free.
The barbarian rose slowly to his feet, staring at the bars and
clenching his fists until the tendons stood out across the backs of his
hands. Conan's will for freedom was as elemental as that of a penned
wolf. No matter if it would avail him nothing, he would tear at the
bars of his prison until the amulet burnt through his throat.

The Cimmerian's nostrils flared as he stepped to the door of his
prison, peering through the holes in the encrusted grate into the
dimness beyond.

"Who's there?" he growled.

Scarcely visible in the darkened corridor outside his cell was the
lissome figure of the woman he had encountered in the halls of the
mansion above. She shrank away from the grate, one pale hand at her
throat.

"How did you know I was here?" she stammered.

"You wear a scent in your hair. It is out of place in this pit."

The woman fumbled awkwardly at her belt for a moment, then there was a
bright spark of flint on steel. A small, golden flame began guttering
from an oil lamp that she thrust forward with one hand.

"What is your name?" she asked in a stronger voice.

"Conan," he replied.

The mellow light revealed the woman in full, her skin gleaming dusky
ivory. Dark leggings clung to shapely legs.

A simple brown tunic was belted tightly around her trim waist and fell
open at her throat.

"Let me out," rumbled the Cimmerian. In spite of the situation, his
eyes were drawn to her beauty, captured by the loose fall of her lush
black hair and the elegant oval of her face.

"A curious name." Her gaze seemed to pierce the cell's iron door,
moving over the Cimmerian with a restless curiosity.

"If you do not set me free before dawn, it will be the name of a dead
man," Conan said.

"Then you have a few hours of life remaining. Who are you, thief?" The
barbarian heaved an exasperated sigh and gripped the bars of his prison
with both hands.

"I am Conan, a Cimmerian."

"What kind of a thief breaks into the home of an accomplished sorceress
and yet scruples to kill one who discovers him therein?" The tiny flame
of the oil lamp was mirrored in her eyes.

"Listen to me, woman. This amulet around my neck was placed there by
Shakar the Keshanian. He charged me with breaking into this house and
stealing a small silver chest. If I do not return with the chest by
sunrise, his amulet will slay me with hellfire. Set me free and I swear
by Crom to do nothing to harm anyone in this house. I will return to
Shakar without your silver box and seek to persuade him to remove the
amulet at sword's point."

The woman's brow furrowed with interest and skepticism. She held the
oil lamp aloft to better study Shakar's amulet, while Conan, dappled by
the grate's shadow, stared back intently and awaited a response.

"Silver box," she murmured. "And what does Shakar the Keshanian want
with milady's silver box?"

"Hanuman devour all silver boxes!" exploded the Cimmerian. "I neither
know nor care what mad designs the Keshanian has upon Zelandra's
belongings. I only know that the bastard's sorcerous toy will spell my
death unless I can make him take it off. Set me free! Did I not spare
you when you lay at my feet with a blade at your throat?"

The woman was silent, staring at him expressionlessly through the iron
door. Conan wondered how long she had been standing outside his cell
before he noticed her.

The woman reached a hand behind her head and pulled a throwing dagger
from its sheath at her nape. She hefted it, flipping the knife in a
glittering pinwheel and catching it again by the hilt.

"I am Neesa, scribe and bodyguard to Lady Zelandra. I can throw this
dagger with some skill."

"I am well aware of that," growled Conan, feeling the faint stirring of
hope.

"Heng Shih wanted to keep you shut up until the morning so as not to
disturb milady. But I am of a mind to take you to Lady Zelandra and
have you tell her your story. Do you swear by your gods that you will
neither attempt to harm me nor escape if I free you from the cell?"

"You have the word of a Cimmerian."

Replacing the throwing dagger in its sheath, Neesa turned and pulled a
stout set of manacles from a peg on the wall behind her. She pushed
them through a hole in the grate, and Conan received them without
comment. The manacles were of oiled steel and separated by a mere three
links of heavy chain. The Cimmerian closed the manacles about his thick
wrists one at a time. Each fastened with a metallic snap that rang
disproportionately loud in the narrow stone cell. When he looked up,
his gaze locked with the woman's for a long moment.

What Neesa saw in the barbarian's eyes she could not name, but she
produced a jingling ring of keys from another wall peg. The key turned
in the lock with a rust-choked rasp and the door swung wide, keening in
protest. The hulking Cimmerian paused briefly in the open stone portal,
then stepped free into the corridor. Neesa felt a surge of fear that
dissipated when she saw Conan's face. He was grinning broadly.

"Lead on," he said. "By Crom, it's good to see I still have some luck
left this ill-favored night."


Chapter Seven
-------------

Shakar the Keshanian paced restlessly within the vaulted marble walls
of his bedchamber from the side of his canopied bed, laden with silks
and exotic furs, across the exposed marble floor, to a circular table
of carved and polished oak. The tabletop was bare except for a small,
intricately chased silver cask that sat alone at its center. The black
sorcerer halted before the table, staring fixedly at the box. This time
he could not wrench himself away to continue his nervous pacing.
Instead, he extended a gloveless hand, webbed with veins as prominent
as those of a man twice his age, and laid it reverently upon the lid of
the silver casket. A trembling coursed through his body as he opened
the box. The inner lining of the cask was seamless and polished to a
mirror surface. In one corner was a small pile of powder as deeply
green as the needles of a northern pine. Beside it lay a tiny silver
spoon of the' kind used to feed infants. Shakar gazed hungrily at the
emerald powder, his lips drawing back from yellowed teeth set in
receding gums.

"So little left," he breathed. He snapped the box's lid shut with a
convulsive movement and turned forcibly away to resume his pacing. He
reached the bed and turned, robes hissing on the smooth floor, and felt
his resolve crumble. The silver box on the table drew him forward until
he found himself standing over it, opening the lid and seizing the
spoon in a desperately eager hand.

At that moment, just beyond the circular table, a silent ripple of
roseate light danced across the naked wall. Shakar stiffened, fearful
that his craving for the emerald dust had addled his mind. Slow streams
of multicolored light were running fluidly over the wall of his
bedchamber. As he watched, they began lacing themselves together,
weaving their glowing fabric into a luminous haze. Soon a rainbow-hued
expanse of churning fog covered the full breadth of the wall. Shakar
watched in mute astonishment as the colors dimmed, giving way to a
brilliant white light. The dark silhouette of a man solidified there,
suspended motionless in the pale blaze of phosphorescent mist. The
head, as dark and featureless as a shadow, turned toward Shakar and
regarded him.

"Sweet Set!" The black sorcerer took a faltering step backward,
bringing a spoonful of the green powder to his open mouth and thrusting
it beneath his tongue. His body jerked as though struck by a heavy
blow, and the spoon dropped to jingle merrily on the marble floor. An
incoherent cry of rage burst from his lips and resounded in the still
room. Savage strength radiated through his wasted limbs, and his face
lit with an unholy glee.

"Invade my chambers and die, fool!" howled Shakar, spittle flying from
his lips. His hands described a swift sequence of complex signs in the
air before him. At their conclusion, his left hand shot up and twisted
into a crooked talon. He extended it toward the figure floating in its
luminous cloud and barked a series of guttural syllables, words in a
language that was ancient before the oceans drank Atlantis.

An ethereal ring of rolling darkness solidified around his left wrist.
Sharp pinpoints of white light winked in the black coil and a
bone-numbing chill radiated from it, turning Shakar's panting breath
into plumes of steam. The Keshanian's hand drew back and then lashed
forward, casting the black ring as a man might throw a stone. It moved
toward the suspended silhouette with easy speed.

The figure lazily raised a shadow-hand amid the bright vapor. The dark
coil hit the outstretched hand and shredded into fading black
streamers.

Shakar gasped aloud. The invader had just shrugged off the most lethal
death-spell in his repertoire. A flat, metallic laugh emanated from the
suspended silhouette and a sourceless light shone upon the featureless
mask of darkness. A face was revealed, and it was a face that Shakar
the Keshanian knew well.

"Eldred!" cried the man in green. "Why do you torment me?" He fell to
his knees on the hard floor, hands held out in shaking supplication. "I
must have more of the Lotus! Anything I have is yours! What do you want
of me? What must I do? Eldred?"

The fog of light upon the wall began to draw in upon itself, fading at
its edges, hiding the dark figure from view.

Shakar's voice rose in frantic despair. "Eldred! Don't leave me!" But
the sorcerous projection shrank and thinned until it was merely a few
stray wisps of dispersing vapor.

Then he was facing a blank marble wall. Hot tears rose in the black
warlock's eyes, spilling down his haggard cheeks despite his best
efforts to contain them.

There was someone at his door.

"Master! Master, what troubles you?" Gulbanda's voice came muffled
through the door's heavy panels. "Are you unwell?" Shakar stood
unsteadily, drawing a velvet sleeve across his face.

"Enter, Gulbanda. All is well. I had… an ill dream." He faced away from
the door as it opened, admitting the bearded bodyguard, who looked
quizzically around the bedchamber. Gulbanda's eyes narrowed as they
fell upon the open silver box. Shakar composed his features, but did
not turn to look upon his servant. He,cleared his throat.

"Has the Cimmerian returned?"

"No, master. I would notify you at once. There are but four hours until
dawn."

"The barbarian may still succeed. He does not seem to be a man easily
thwarted. Still, go to the house of Lady Zelandra and keep watch over
the gates. He may need your assistance in escaping. Go now."

Gulbanda grimaced in disapproval, his scar making a pallid flash in his
black beard, but nodded obediently. The dark-armored bodyguard stepped
out of the room, then hesitated in drawing the door closed.

"Master, if he returns without the cask, or even with it, may I have
him? It will be months before I can wield a sword with any skill. It
seems a small favor to grant to one as loyal as I."

"If he does not return, I shall slay him with my amulet.

If he does return to this house, then he is yours, faithful Gulbanda."

The bodyguard grinned with clear pleasure. "Thank you, master. I would
have him in the chair again, repenting that he ever took my fingers."

"Good evening, Gulbanda."

The door closed, leaving Shakar alone in his bedchamber. He walked
slowly to his bed and sat, his body weighted with a weariness that left
his mind free and ablaze with urgent energy. He considered trying to
sleep, or at least lying down to rest for a while, but he didn't move.
Shakar simply sat on the edge of the bed with trembling hands clutched
tight in his lap. He tried to fix his black eyes on the floor between
his feet, but again and again his gaze rose helplessly to fasten upon
the open silver cask.


Chapter Eight
-------------

Conan followed Neesa out of the little dungeon, through a cobwebbed
wine cellar and up a worn flight of stone stairs. They made their way
silently down taper-lit corridors until they stood before a broad
double door inlaid with plaques of carved ivory. Neesa laid a slim hand
upon the heavy door and turned to the barbarian.

"Milady is likely awake, but if she still sleeps, you must be silent
and allow me to wake her. If startled from sleep she might smite us
with some spell." Conan's face went dour and he stroked lightly at
Shakar's amulet with one hand.

"By Manannan, it seems the more I strive to avoid sorcery, the more it
strives to seek me out," he grumbled. "Lead on."

The doors swung open soundlessly at Neesa's touch, revealing an ornate,
painted screen that shielded from view the unlit room beyond. Neesa
took a tentative step within and the darkness was abruptly split by a
flicker of weird crimson light. The two halted on the threshold as the
room was suddenly aglow with a rainbow of brilliant colors. A soft
feminine cry, half dismay and half astonishment, came out of the dark.
Hearing it, Conan and Neesa lunged together around the screen and into
Lady Zelandra's chamber, where they stopped short in amazement.

Vaporous light coruscated along the wall, illuminating the room with a
shifting radiance. A luxurious bed stood against the left wall, flanked
by massive shelves crammed with books. Tables were set on either side
of the bed, and they too were heaped with books. A woman was sitting
bolt-upright in the bed, half wrapped in a white froth of silken
sheets. She stared at the wall across from her, where foggy strands of
many-hued light were interlocking in a grid of translucent fire. The
colors died and the wall became a sheet of phosphorescent mist. An
ominous shadow coalesced there.

Conan's instinctive fear of the supernatural seized him in a frigid
fist, lifting the hair on the nape of his neck.

"Heng Shih!" screamed the woman in the bed. "Heng Shih!"

A door on the opposite side of the chamber burst open and a man charged
through, sliding to a stop beside the bed. It was the huge Khitan whom
Conan had fought in the corridor. In his left hand was the wooden mace;
in his right was a heavy scimitar, its flaring blade reflecting the
sinister light that bathed the room. Holding both weapons before him,
the Khitan advanced expressionlessly upon the black shadow suspended in
light.

"Hold!" cried the woman. "Don't touch him, Heng Shih." The Khitan
stopped his advance but moved sideways to put himself between the
sorcerous projection and the woman in the bed.

"Oh, Lady Zelandra. You prove that your wisdom is the equal of your
beauty." The voice was deep and resonant. It was not loud, yet seemed
to reach into every corner of the room. Conan recoiled, his
wilderness-bred senses assuring him that what he seemed to hear was not
sound at all. It came from no discernible direction. The black figure
spoke directly into the mind.

"Who are you? Why do you trespass here?" The woman in the bed seemed
more enraged than afraid. The invader, etched starkly against shifting
veils of white light, laughed and spoke again.

"You know me as Eldred the Trader."

The woman bristled, coming to her knees on the bed.

"Assassin! Have you come here to gloat over my impending death?" she
spat.

"On the contrary, sweet lady, I have come to offer you life. I am the
master of the Emerald Lotus. You have tasted its glorious power and
felt its mortal demands. I am fresh from a visit to the home of Shakar
the Keshanian, and I fear that he will not last another two days. His
appetite escalates as his supply dwindles. You seem to be in much
better health, so I infer that you have shown greater control than the
Keshanian. You may live another week or two, but be aware that without
a steady supply of my lotus, you are doomed."

"You have a price?" asked Zelandra bitterly. The shadow figure
continued as though she had not spoken.

"The Emerald Lotus is a wondrous gift to sorcerers. You have
experienced but a meager fraction of its strength in your own wizardry.
Its power is limitless. With enough of the lotus a mage might become
all-powerful, while those seduced by it and then abandoned must die. In
the guise of Eldred the Trader, I approached both you and Shakar the
Keshanian. Two petty sorcerers locked in a trifling rivalry over which
would be privileged to become King Sumuabi's lackey. The lure of the
mythical Emerald Lotus proved as strong as I knew it would be. I sold
it to you for a pittance, but I would have given it to you for nothing
had you chosen not to buy."

"Why?" The rage had faded from Zelandra's voice, leaving only a
profound weariness.

"Why?" The veils of stark light throbbed brighter. "Because I wondered
how much power such a small amount would grant you. Because I wondered
how long you could make it last. But most of all, because I wondered
how long it would take you to die once it was gone. I have learned so
much from you, sweet lady, and from Shakar the keshanian. It is
knowledge I shall use to good effect. I have found the seeds of the
Emerald Lotus, lost since the time of black Acheron, and I am its
master. It shall strengthen me and slay my enemies. All the mages of
Stygia shall soon have the opportunity to sample my lotus, and those
who accept it will either obey me as loyal followers or be left to die.
Can you not see it, sweet lady? I will command a legion of
lotus-enslaved wizards, while that which holds them in bondage grants
me greater and greater power. Who can say what the limits of my
dominion might be?" The ebon outline fell silent, pausing as though to
savor the moment. "I am destined to become a great force in the world,
Zelandra, but you need not fear me. I am not here to slay you; rather I
would ask you, lady, would you share this power with me?"

"Who are you?" The woman on the bed spoke without emotion.

The moving curtains of fiery mist drew apart, dimming into the
background as the figure became visible: a tall man dressed in a regal
gray robe trimmed with ermine. Great dark eyes set in a noble,
sharp-featured face surveyed the room with calm intensity. A subtle,
golden radiance played about him as he bowed deeply toward the Lady
Zelandra.

"I am called Ethram-Fal."

"Ethram-Fal?" Zelandra's voice cracked. "I have heard of you, Stygian.
A reject of the Black Ring. Why do you present yourself as a normal man
rather than the twisted dwarf that you are?"

"Bitch!" The invader all but choked in astonishment. "I offer you life
and a place by my side and you would mock me?" The sorcerer's words
burst inside their skulls with staggering force, scalding with shock
and rage. The figure fell in upon itself, its outline collapsing into
the image of a much smaller, hunched man in plain gray robes. Bulging
eyes glared furiously from beneath a dark and beetle brow. The haze of
light around him paled and then vanished entirely, revealing a rocky
desert landscape touched by the first pallid rays of dawn. Sharp spires
of ruddy stone rose to his immediate left, while on his right a small,
unusually regular formation of jagged peaks lay upon the azure horizon.
Ethram-Fal's clenched fists shook by his sides while his thin mouth
worked in an uncontrollable fury of outrage.

"I will return to you in three days. By then my lotus will have
tightened its grip. I swear by the Crawling Chaos that I shall hear you
beg for my acceptance. And then, by Set, then I shall decide if you are
worthy!"

The image winked out like a snuffed candle, leaving the four of them
staring at a blank wall in a room gone suddenly dark.


Chapter Nine
------------

The Lady Zelandra fell back among her pillows as if in a faint, then
sat up abruptly, twisting one hand in the air. Four torches set in wall
mounts flared into brilliant orange flame, flooding the room with
light. She was still staring at the wall.

"Damn him," she said softly, "and damn me for a fool."

"Milady," cried Neesa as she crossed the bedchamber, towing Conan by
one muscular arm. Heng Shih, the Khitan, brandished both of his
weapons, the flare-bladed scimitar whistling as it cut the air. He did
not speak.

"What's this?" Lady Zelandra swung her fine long legs over the
bedclothes and came to her feet. She advanced upon the Cimmerian, her
eyes slitted and mouth tight with contempt.

"Milady," said Neesa, "this is Conan. He broke into the house, and Heng
Shih and I just managed to overcome him. He has an interesting story to
tell. He is—"

"A pawn of Shakar's," cut in Zelandra. "The Keshanian amulet about his
neck reveals the truth. Is that third-rate trickster so desperate that
he sends barbarian thieves to rob me? What did you come seeking, oaf?"

Zelandra's hair was black, straight, and shot through with silver.
Though she was well into middle age, her body was still erect and firm,
beautiful in her silken nightrobe. Her keen black eyes inspected her
uninvited visitor with obvious repugnance.

"I am no friend of Shakar's, lady. If you know the amulet, then you
must know its purpose. If I do not return to the Keshanian by dawn, its
flame will burn my head from my shoulders. Shakar sent me here to steal
from you a silver box. I had no choice in the matter."

"Of course," muttered Zelandra as if speaking to herself, "without more
lotus the rascal dies."

"With this damned amulet around my neck, I die in any case." Conan's
voice grew louder. "Release me so that I may at least try to force the
dog to remove it. Swear to give me that chance, and I shall help you
against the Stygian who calls himself Ethram-Fal."

"Derketo, but you have gall," Zelandra grinned briefly in reluctant
admiration. "And how might an unwashed savage like yourself be of
assistance in a war of wizards?"

Conan tossed his black mane with manifest impatience. "The sorcerer who
made himself appear upon the wall, the one who claimed mastery over the
thing he called the Emerald Lotus, I know where he is to be found."

Heng Shih slid the scimitar into his wide yellow sash, then fluttered
the fingers of his right hand as though drawing quick pictures in the
air. Conan recognized the movements as a form of sign language, but had
no notion of what message was conveyed.

"Perhaps," said Zelandra soberly, "but who can say?"

She took two swift steps to the Cimmerian's side and laid a cool hand
upon his amulet and throat. Conan clenched his teeth. Expecting the
thing to blaze into murderous life, he fought an impulse to shrink
away.

"Hie Nostratos-Valkallar," she whispered, as her fingers slid between
the egg-shaped amulet and Conan's throat. The muscles of the
barbarian's frame locked into taut knots, but he held himself in place.
The sorceress smiled lazily into Conan's tense face and spoke: "Hie
Nostratos-Nectos."

White fire erupted before the Cimmerian's eyes as Zelandra jerked the
amulet free. She stepped back, her hand full of livid molten
brilliance. The barbarian clasped both hands around his naked throat as
a thick wave of searing heat struck his body.

"Crom and Ishtar!" The curse ripped from Conan's lips.

The sorceress opened her hand and liquid metal streamed down her
fingers in bright rivulets, spilling to the floor, It seemed to flee
her fingers, every drop shedding itself to sizzle in the carpet. Her
hand was unmarked.

"Just a toy," she said. "Now where is Ethram-Fal, and how do you come
by such convenient information? If you are lying, I shall devise a
death for you that will make the amulet seem most merciful."

"To hell with you and your threats," snarled Conan. "I've been drugged,
beaten, and blackmailed all night long. I said I knew where he was and
I meant it. I could use a drink."

Heng Shih advanced menacingly, hefting his wooden mace. Conan stood his
ground, glaring, and Neesa spoke up.

"I'll get some wine, milady. With your permission?"

"Certainly," said Zelandra, the reluctant smile playing about her lips
again. "Being drugged, blackmailed, and beaten does sound like thirsty
work."

Neesa bolted from the room, leaving Conan and Heng Shih to glower at
one another while Zelandra examined the barbarian as though seeing him
clearly for the first time.

"The Khitan is mute, then?" asked Conan, relaxing a little.

"Yes, though his hands and his weapons speak most eloquently when he
wishes."

Conan rubbed the back of his head ruefully. "His club spoke to my skull
earlier this evening, though I'll wager that if I had not felt the
lingering fumes of Shakar's drugs, I would have heard him stealing up
behind me." Heng Shih's round face split in a wolfish grin, the fingers
of his right hand working in the air before him.

"He says that you have the hardest head of any man he's ever met," said
Zelandra wryly.

"Others have said the same," replied the Cimmerian. "Tell him that he's
the fastest-moving fat man I've ever seen."

The Khitan frowned darkly, drawing himself up to his full height as
Neesa re-entered the room bearing a silver tray set with a jug of wine
and a large pewter tankard.

"He understands you perfectly," said Lady Zelandra.

"So I thought." Conan snatched the jug from the platter with manacled
hands and tore the cork out with his teeth. Disdaining the tankard, he
drank directly from the bottle, taking several deep swallows before
pulling it from his lips with an explosive sigh of satisfaction. He
strode to the nearest table and, carelessly pushing books aside, sat on
its edge. Nursing the bottle, he stretched his long legs out before him
and gave every sign of being well pleased with himself.

"As soon as you are adequately refreshed, perhaps you would see fit to
tell us where you believe Ethram-Fal can be found," said Zelandra
sarcastically. Heng Shih drew his scimitar casually from his sash and
absently began to test its edge with a thumb. None of this served to
hurry Conan, who took a last, leisurely swallow from the bottle and set
it on the table beside him.

"After you taunted the Stygian and he took on his true aspect, the
scenery behind him became as clear as if we looked through a window of
glass into a desert," said the Cimmerian.

"I angered him and his concentration faltered," said Lady Zelandra.
"What of it?"

"When the desert was revealed," went on Conan patiently, "I saw a ridge
behind him. It is a row of small peaks that men call the Dragon's
Spine."

"You have seen this ridge before?" asked Neesa in amazement.

"I have seen it twice. The last time was two months ago, when I took a
caravan across Stygia from the Black Kingdoms. Before that, I saw it on
the way to the dead city of demons called Pteion."

"You have been to Pteion?" Zelandra's eyes were wide in the torchlight.

"I was there once," replied Conan. "It is a place best avoided.
Ethram-Fal is in eastern Stygia, a few days' travel from the Shemitish
border. From the position of the Dragon's Spine, he is both west and
south of Pteion, though what he is doing in that godforsaken wasteland
only Crom knows. I give you my word that all I have said is true. Now,
if you will remove these manacles, and give me back my sword, I will
return to the house of Shakar the Keshanian. After my visit, I promise
that he shall trouble neither you nor anyone else unless it be in
hell."

At a gesture from Zelandra, Neesa came forward, drawing from within her
tunic a small key which she fitted into the Cimmerian's manacles. In a
moment they fell from his wrists, clattering to the floor.

"Barbarian…" said Zelandra. She hesitated, a rosy tint suffusing her
features, then began again: "Conan, that area of Stygia is little
known. I have scant time to find a reliable guide. If you lead me into
that territory, your reward will be rich."

"But, milady," burst out Neesa in dismay. Zelandra silenced her with an
imperious wave of a hand.

"What else is there for me?" she snapped. "Do I sit here passively and
wait for madness and death? Or perhaps you would have me submit myself
to Ethram-Fal?"

"No, milady," murmured Neesa, lowering her gaze. Heng Shih folded his
thick arms impassively; only his bleak eyes revealed his emotion.

"Besides, Conan," Zelandra continued, "Shakar will die shortly for want
of the Emerald Lotus. Slaying him would be an act of mercy. I need your
aid now and can pay well for it."

The Cimmerian scowled, his blue eyes burning with distrust.

"I have little use for wizards—" he began, but Zelandra cut him off.

"Conan, I swear by Ishtar and Ashtoreth to do you no harm by sorcery or
otherwise. Can you not see that my life is in the balance now? Without
your aid, Ethram-Fal will claim my life with his lotus just as surely
as Shakar would have claimed yours with his amulet. On the journey you
could be guide and guard in one; but when we find his sanctuary, I
shall confront Ethram-Fal alone. You needn't deal with him at all…" A
note of pleading desperation had crept into her voice. Conan shifted in
discomfort and suddenly felt Neesa's body pressed warmly against his
side. In front of him, Lady Zelandra extended a hand in supplication
more eloquent than words.

"Please, barbarian."

"What the hell," said Conan gruffly. "I trust that the wages will
outstrip those of a mercenary."

"Tenfold," said Zelandra. "By Pteor, Conan, you shall never have reason
to regret this." The Cimmerian felt Neesa remove herself from his side.
At the same moment he noticed Heng Shih's face had taken on the
expression of a man attempting to swallow a mouthful of spoiled meat.

"I'm damned if I don't regret it already," he grumbled. "When do we
leave?"

"After sunrise." Zelandra spun about in a swirl of her silken robe. 'I
have many preparations to make, and you could doubtless use a little
sleep after a night like this. Heng Shih, show our guest to one of the
bedchambers."

The big Khitan thrust his scimitar once more through his sash and
brusquely beckoned the Cimmerian to follow him. Neesa slipped out the
door just ahead of them, not glancing at Conan, but heading off down
the hallway in the direction opposite that taken by Heng Shih and the
barbarian.

Conan looked back over a broad shoulder and muttered a curse as he
watched the woman round a corner out of sight. When he turned back to
Heng Shih, the Khitan's round, yellow face was split by a grin that the
barbarian found vexing.

In the mansion's opposite wing, the burning tapers were fewer and the
rooms seemed unoccupied and unused. The hallway finally ended in a door
that Heng Shih shoved open roughly. Within was a small, windowless, but
elegantly appointed bedchamber. Conan stepped inside, and turned to the
Khitan.

"My sword," he said. "Bring me my sword. I shall sleep poorly without
it at hand." Heng Shih performed an elaborate shrug that seemed to
indicate that he found the quality of the Cimmerian's rest of less than
paramount concern. With that ambiguous gesture he closed the door upon
the barbarian, leaving Conan wondering when he might hold his sword
again.

Alone, Conan stretched like a weary panther as fatigue came over him
despite what he had said to the Khitan. He examined the door, checked
that it could not be locked from the outside, then sat down heavily on
the bed. Falling back to sprawl among the velvet blankets, he let
himself drift, confident that his senses would awaken him to any
danger. He was sleeping soundly when there came a gentle knock at the
door.

The Cimmerian snapped from slumber to complete waking clarity with the
speed of a wild animal. He sat up on the bed, planted both feet on the
floor, and wished that he had a weapon.

"Come," he rasped and waited. The door swung open soundlessly. The
first thing that he saw was the proffered hilt of his sword.

"So," Conan began, "you decided..." He fell silent.

It was Neesa who brought him the sword. She stepped tentatively into
the room, bare white arms extending from filmy sleeves as she held the
hilt of the heavy broadsword out to him. Her only garment was a
diaphanous robe that floated about her like a soft cloud of translucent
vapor. The room's single taper illumined the long curves of her slender
body through the robe's revealing gossamer.

"I—" Neesa's voice faltered. "I was afraid that Heng Shih would not
bring you your sword and that you would think that we mistrusted you. I
thought—" She flushed and thrust the sword out to him. Conan took his
blade and held it uncertainly, his gaze fixed upon her. He had come to
his feet without thinking and now he became painfully aware of the
woman's obvious discomfort.

"Neesa," said Conan hoarsely. "I'll take Zelandra's payment in gold."

"What? They don't know I'm…" she stammered. Her face twisted in mingled
confusion and anger. "Damn me for an idiot!" she exclaimed savagely.
With that she lunged forward, throwing her arms around the barbarian
and crushing her mouth against his. The sword was pinned between their
bodies. Conan released it, his arms moving automatically around her.
Neesa laid her hands upon his wide chest and thrust him away, breaking
the embrace. The sword dropped to the carpet, where it lay unnoticed.
Wild-eyed and panting, Neesa glared at the Cimmerian, who looked on in
mute amazement.

"I am not payment," she gritted. "I thought… oh, to hell with what I
thought!" She whirled and ran from the bedchamber, slamming the door
behind her.

Conan stared at the door for a full minute. He glanced down at his
sword to be certain that it was really there. Then he sat on the bed
again and rubbed his jaw. He reflected that it made little difference
how long he lived or how many women he knew, the opposite sex continued
to provide surprises. Apparently Neesa had come to him of her own
accord and he had managed to drive her off with a few ill-chosen words.
It certainly wouldn't be the first time that he had shown poor judgment
where women were concerned.

But there was little point in worrying about it. All and all, this was
a superior close to a difficult day. He was employed, free of Shakar's
magic, and lying on a fine bed with a belly full of wine. Conan lolled
back on the blankets once again and kicked off Ms boots. Things had,
indeed, been much worse. In a few moments the barbarian was asleep.


Chapter Ten
-----------

Alone in her bedchamber, Zelandra brooded.

The torches burned as ruddy as dying embers, filling the room with a
ruby twilight that matched the sorceress's mood. Her long, silken robes
whispered on the marble floor as she moved among her books, studying
the unwieldy piles on the tables and then methodically examining her
shelves. In a corner, she knelt and pulled an armload of long leather
tubes from behind a row of books.

Shoving the tomes aside, she piled the leather tubes on a table,
peering at each in turn. Zelandra selected one that was pale and
slender, and drew from it a rolled scroll of parchment. It was a map,
darkened by age and inscribed in a dead language. The sorceress
muttered to herself, smoothing the crackling scroll flat on the dusty
tabletop.

The map depicted the eastern regions of what was now Stygia, but the
highland areas were sketched in with little detail. Zelandra sighed.
The map seemed all but useless; still, it would have to suffice. She
thrust the scroll into the tube and set it beside her bed. Then she
hesitated, wrapped in indecision.

Resolution came to Zelandra, sending her striding to the far corner of
the chamber. She reached for a torch, twisting it in its sconce, and a
section of the bookshelf-lined wall swung open like a door. Within was
a tiny, circular room hung with curtains of black velvet. A single
chair sat at a round, ebony table that all but filled the little
chamber. The sorceress stepped into the secret room, and the door swung
shut, sealing her in darkness.

Zelandra whispered a soft incantation, and an unearthly silver glow
dispelled the gloom. Ten spheres of hematite were set in a circle on
the tabletop, and they radiated a chill illumination.

The sorceress sat in the chair, touching each of the stones in turn.
Silver light raked her features, turning them stark and sinister. Her
hands danced over the ring of stones, describing intricate patterns,
and a patch of light appeared in the air before her. It rolled and
seethed, suspended above the circle of silvery stones like a ball of
glowing smoke.

"Mithrelle," said Zelandra clearly. "Mithrelle."

The ball of smoky light vanished, and it was as though a distorted
mirror suddenly hung before Zelandra. The flattened image of a woman's
face peered at the sorceress, floating above the table.

"Mithrelle," said Zelandra. The conjured face blinked as if startled.
It was a face of extraordinary beauty.

"Who dares?" The voice was rich and throaty, sounding as if its owner
shared the little room with the Lady Zelandra.

"Who dares, indeed." Zelandra smiled casually, but her hands were
clenched into tight fists, and the pulse fluttered visibly in her
throat.

"Zelandra!" The woman called Mithrelle smiled in recognition. Black
hair hung in heavy coils around her pale face. Eyes like pools of oil
gleamed with dark humor. Her lips were stained so deeply red as to
appear black. "To what do I own this unexpected pleasure?"

"Greetings, Mithrelle. I'm loathe to disturb you at this hour, but I
have need of information. And everyone knows that there is no one so
well informed as yourself."

Mithrelle laughed, throwing back her head and baring her white throat.
On her breast, a swollen garnet hung from a necklace of black pearls.
"Flattery! This is not like you, Zelandra."

"I need your help, Mithrelle."

"Even so? You have had little use for me since we studied together."

"Your path is not my path, Mithrelle."

"Oh no." Mithrelle's tones grew heavy with sarcasm. "The lady prefers
the quiet life of a scholar. She hides away in Akkharia with her
slaves, only venturing out to go to market."

"How is Sabatea, Mithrelle?" Zelandra's voice turned hard.

"Very well. I have performed a few favors for the sorcerers of the
Black Ring, and they have been appropriately grateful. My life is full
of pleasures. And your own? Is that strapping Khitan slave still
keeping you company?"

"I freed Heng Shih long ago," said Zelandra tersely. She fought to
control herself. Anger would accomplish nothing.

"Of course you did. I'd expect nothing less. You are the same woman you
were a score of years ago. Yet, I have heard rumors as of late that the
reclusive Lady Zelandra is seeking a more public position. I couldn't
credit it." Mithrelle paused theatrically, lifting a long-fingered hand
to stroke her chin. Her nails were sharp and gleamed with black
lacquer.

Zelandra shrugged in resignation. She should have known that Mithrelle
would ask at least as.many questions as she answered.

"I'm seeking the position of court wizard to the king."

"It's true, then," exclaimed Mithrelle in mock surprise. "And why would
the Lady Zelandra demean herself by working for another? Could it be
that her inheritance is dwindling and that she must needs earn a living
for the first time in her life?"

"I fail to see why you ask so many questions," Zelandra replied
stiffly, "since you obviously know all the answers already." Mithrelle
laughed in delight, her mirth as sweet and cloying as poisoned honey.

"Indeed. That is why you sought audience with me, is it not? Now, how
can I assist my old friend?"

"Tell me of the Stygian sorcerer named Ethram-Fal."

"Phaugh!" Mithrelle grimaced delicately. "What do you want with that
one?"

"He has insinuated himself into my affairs. He claims that he can sell
me magical talismans of unprecedented power."

"Ah." The Sabatean's eyes lit up. "I see. You wish to know if his goods
can assist you in claiming the position of court wizard."

The sorceress nodded ruefully, as if admitting an unwelcome truth.
Inwardly, Zelandra rejoiced that Mithrelle was not as perceptive as she
believed herself to be.

"Ethram-Fal is a laughingstock. I presume that you have heard how he
came to Sabatea seeking membership in the Black Ring. Even the feeblest
student of the dark arts knows that the Black Ring recruits its own
members, yet still the dolt came calling. Perhaps he imagined that his
greatness had escaped the notice of the Black Ring. They were more
merciful than might be expected, however, merely casting him out of the
city in disgrace. If Thoth-Amon had been about when Ethram-Fal made his
plea, the upstart would probably still be screaming under the Steel
Wings."

"Do you know where he dwells?"

"Ethram-Fal was born in Kheshatta, though I believe that he left the
City of Magicians in order to take up residence here in Sabatea. The
Dark Gods alone know where he has fled since his exile. You have seen
him in Akkharia?"

"Yes, but his home is elsewhere."

Mithrelle's eyes grew hooded and lazy. "Why should this be so important
to you? Ethram-Fal has little to his credit save his considerable skill
in the magic of plants, fungi, and such. Still, I hardly imagined that
his rejection by the Black Ring would drive him to become a merchant.
What manner of magical talismans did he offer, that you felt it
necessary to call me?"

"Just a handful of potions and philters. Magic intensifiers, mostly."
Zelandra fought to keep the tension out of her voice, smiling
sheepishly. "I shall need all the aid I can muster to be chosen as King
Sumuabi's court mage."

"Yet you don't seem curious about your rivals. What is it that truly
concerns you about Ethram-Fal, Zelandra?"

"It is small wonder that I do not converse with you more often,
Mithrelle. You are the most suspicious woman I have ever known."

Zelandra's hands crept across the table toward the shining spheres of
hematite. The image of Mithrelle swelled and throbbed brighter.

"Oh no, milady. Don't think to end this audience just yet. I can't
abide unanswered questions, and you have made me very curious."

"Goodbye, Mithrelle." Zelandra slipped her hands down on two stones.
The flat image of the Sabatean sorceress flickered and dimmed, then
abruptly flared to brilliant life.

"You would desert your old friend?" Mithrelle's voice dropped to a
guttural growl. "Come to me, little Zelandra. Come to me and answer my
questions and be my slave." The oval image expanded rapidly and
acquired depth. Zelandra felt as if she stared into an open portal
carved from empty air.

Mithrelle's bare, white arms shot out of the image. Her hands seized
Zelandra about the throat. Black nails scored Zelandra's flesh as the
Sabatean sorceress reached into the chamber as if leaning over a
windowsill.

"You would toy with me, Zelandra? Did you forget that I was always your
better? Come!" Mithrelle's long-fingered hands squeezed off her breath,
lifting Zelandra from her seat.

The blood roared in the sorceress's ears. She pulled back against the
Sabatean's embrace, lifting her hands from the silver-glowing stones
and clapping them upon Mithrelle's temples. Crimson lightning crackled
from her palms. Mithrelle's mouth fell open like a castle's drawbridge,
but no sound emerged. Her hands sprang from Zelandra's throat and
clawed spastically at the air.

"You were always overconfident, Mithrelle," said Zelandra hoarsely. She
dropped her hands onto the stones. Mithrelle's arms were wrenched
forcibly back into the image, which shrank and flattened until it once
again resembled a floating mirror.

"You can't!" The Sabatean found her voice. She snarled like a beast, a
lank lock of black hair falling across her pale face. "You can't!"

"I can," said the Lady Zelandra. Her hands moved upon the stones and
the image winked out in a scarlet flash, like a bursting bubble of
blood.

The sorceress stood, stretching wearily and rubbing her bruised neck as
the secret room's door swung open behind her. She returned to her
bedchamber, where the torches burned ruddy and low. Casting a glance at
the forsaken bed, Zelandra shook her head and sighed. There would be no
more sleep tonight. She moved silently about the room, gathering her
belongings for the long journey ahead.


Chapter Eleven
--------------

Broad beams of golden sunlight stretched across the floor of Shakar's
study. The black sorcerer stood quietly, staring out the open window
into the verdant splendor of his garden. A cooling breeze bore both the
songs of birds and the perfume of greenery into the room, but the
tranquil pleasures of the garden went unnoticed by the Keshanian mage
today. He walked slowly from the window seat across the study, leaned
listlessly against his wide mahogany desk, and tried not to think of
the silver box mat he had placed within it.

The sound of a slamming door came to him and he started violently,
turning eager, sleepless eyes to the study's curtained entrance.
Gulbanda burst in, panting, his crested helmet clutched under one
dark-armored arm.

"Master," Gulbanda said between gasps. "The barbarian, Lady Zelandra,
and two of her servants have left the city!"

For a moment Shakar looked as though he might fall; then a surge of
rage seemed to buoy him up.

"You lie!" screamed the Keshanian. His hands twisted through a series
of swift movements, ending with his left hand raised, its fingers
crooked into talons. Gulbanda knew the gestures that preceded the
death-spell and fell to his knees.

"Master, I swear that it is true. I saw them leave by the caravan gate,
and even now they ride the Caravan Road toward Sabatea. The amulet was
gone from the barbarian's neck. I swear it." The sweat of fear shone on
the warrior's face.

Shakar spun away from the kneeling man, waving his fists in
uncontrolled fury.

"By the Black Gods, am I to be thwarted at every turn? Where were they
bound?"

"So help me, Master, I know not. I watched the lady's house as you
instructed and, when they departed, I followed them to the caravan
gate. Then I came directly to you."

Facing the window, Shakar's arms dropped limply to his sides. He turned
back to his bodyguard, face haggard but calmed.

"Arise, Gulbanda" he said quietly. "Forgive me for threatening my
finest servant and most loyal friend." As Gulbanda faltered to his
feet, Shakar took him by the arm and led him to the window seat.

"Here, sit down. You must be tired after your long vigil."

"I slept not a moment last night, master." Heavy lids half veiling his
eyes attested to his honesty.

"Nor did I," said the mage. "Come, let me take your breastplate and
helmet. We shall relax, eat, drink, and plan what is to be done." The
Keshanian helped Gulbanda out of his breastplate, mail shirt, and
helmet, setting them on a table across the room. He brought a split
loaf of bread and a crystal decanter of wine from a cupboard against
the far wall, and set them before Gulbanda as though he were the master
and Shakar the servant. The bodyguard hid a grin of bemusement. A
surprise until Shakar had turned away again. He reflected that, if his
master was losing his mind, then he had certainly picked the right way
to go about it.

"Is the wine to your liking?" asked the Keshanian, slipping into the
chair behind his desk and silently drawing open a drawer. Gulbanda
sipped thirstily from the bottle, finding the wine's taste odd but
quite agreeable.

"It is sweet," said the warrior, tearing off a bit of bread. "I've
never had its like."

"It is brewed from Brythunian apples and is a bit stronger than it may
seem." Shakar's hands were busy in the drawer of his desk. 'Tell me, my
friend, how shall we avenge ourselves upon the barbarian and claim the
cask from Lady Zelandra?" Gulbanda took another swallow of the sweet
wine and found that it snaked a path of heat down into his belly.

"Well, if we move swiftly we could follow them to whatever their
destination might be, then ambush and kill them. I would say that we
could do it alone if not for my wounded hand and your…" he faltered, "…
your sickness."

"Ah," said the Keshanian, "you suggest that I hire more men?" His hand
drew the silver-chased casket from the velvet-lined interior of a
drawer, set it on the desktop, and flipped open the lid.

"Yes, two or three bravos with ready daggers would even the odds."
Gulbanda washed down a bite of bread with another swallow of wine and
found that the sweet stuff was going to his head. Behind him, Shakar
lifted a tiny spoon to his mouth twice in rapid succession. "Of
course," added the bodyguard, "I would duel the barbarian alone if it
were not for my wound."

The sorcerer tensed his body against the shudders that racked it. He
blinked back tears and drew a deep breath, shaking off the pain.

"Do you know where such men can be hired?" Shakar's voice had gone
hoarse, but his bodyguard paid no heed. Gulbanda was taking another
pull on the jug and relishing the warmth blossoming through his body.

"Yes, yes," he said. "I have a few men in mind right now."

"Tell me about them," said Shakar, though he wasn't listening. He was
removing a number of distinctive items from the drawer of his desk and
setting them before him. First was an eight-inch length of hollow
bamboo, cut diagonally so that its base was an enclosed cup and its top
a long tapering blade as sharp as broken glass. He stood it on its
base. Next was a small vial of black crystal, which he uncorked,
pouring a honey-thick, translucent fluid into the base of the bamboo
spike. Last was a lace handkerchief baring a darkly crusted stain of
dried blood. With a thumbnail Shakar scraped flakes of coagulated blood
from the fabric, dropping them into the bamboo receptacle. He then
clutched the spike with both hands and muttered a word in a dialect
sacred to the priests of Keshia. A thin, almost invisible, curl of
smoke arose from the bamboo spike. He palmed it as though it were a
dagger and rose from behind his desk.

"Worthy cutthroats all," finished Gulbanda. "A few gold coins will
secure their loyalty unto death, Shakar." His voice had taken on a
barely noticeable slur.

The Keshanian showed nothing but calm interest, but he bristled
inwardly as he advanced upon his bodyguard. The dog had addressed him
by name rather than as master. That would make his task easier. He laid
a cold hand on Gulbanda's shoulder, studying the thin leather jerkin
that was now the only barrier protecting the warrior's full-muscled
torso. The bodyguard shifted in his seat to face his employer. His
bleary eyes focused on Shakar's expressionless countenance.

"But you, Gulbanda," said Shakar almost tenderly, "you will be loyal to
me far, far beyond death." And he slammed the bamboo spike into the
center of Gulbanda's chest with all of his strength. The bodyguard
cried out, lurching to his feet with Shakar clinging to him like a
leech. The Keshanian jammed the length of bamboo into Gulbanda's body,
pouring the weapon's contents into the wound. A wild scream tore from
the bodyguard's throat and his body spasmed, falling to the floor with
Shakar still holding tight.

"Ayah Damballah!" chanted the sorcerer. "Kill Zelandra, bring me the
casket, kill the barbarian, bring me the casket! Zereth Yog Ayah
Damballah!"

Gulbanda thrashed convulsively on the floor, screaming like a man being
flayed alive. His cries and Shakar's chanting mingled in an unholy
chorus, each fighting for prominence until the screams died away and
Shakar's voice rang alone in triumph.


Chapter Twelve
--------------

Ethram-Fal sat alone in a room carved from living rock and toasted his
good fortune. His goblet was fashioned of gleaming silver set with
lozenges of polished black onyx. It was brimming with an
unwholesome-looking greenish liquid: wine blended with a heavy portion
of Emerald Lotus powder. The Stygian swirled the thick mixture in the
goblet, then tossed it back. He clamped his eyes shut, his thin throat
working as he swallowed, guzzling the goblet's full contents. Pulling
the emptied vessel from his lips, he gave a soft, shuddering cry. His
gaunt, hunched body shivered within its gray robes.

"Hah! Yes, by Set!" Ethram-Fal's lips writhed away from his
green-stained teeth, and his eyes blazed with a terrible light. He
released the goblet, which remained suspended in mid-air before him.
The Stygian's pupils rolled back and his emaciated frame stiffened with
effort. The floating goblet crumpled in upon itself as though in the
grip of an invisible vise. A chip of onyx popped free of its setting
and fell to the floor, while the rest of the vessel was slowly crushed
together into a shapeless lump of metal. Ethram-Fal laughed with
delight and allowed the rough ball of crumpled silver to drop.

He had become stronger than he had ever allowed himself to dream. Let
Zelandra try to resist him now. The sorcerer sprawled back in the
room's only chair, bulbous head lolling on narrow shoulders. Drugged
ecstasy pulsed through him, fueling his fantasies. He remembered
standing before her in the sorcerous disguise of Eldred the Trader. He
remembered the way that her silver-threaded hair fell upon her slim,
white neck. How beautiful she was! And a sorceress as well, by Derketo!
Surely here was a woman who could appreciate the true scope of his
ambitions. Here was a mature sorceress worthy to stand at his side.

Yet she had rejected him. The memory lashed Ethram-Fal and his eyes
flew wide, rolling as he gazed unseeing about the chamber. How could
she be such a fool? It was all too obvious that she still had much to
learn about him and his Emerald Lotus. But she would doubtless learn
her lessons quickly as her supply of the drug dwindled away and her
newfound power faded, replaced by the all-consuming hunger that
presaged madness and an agonizing death.

The Stygian deliberately slowed his breathing and calmed himself. He
needed only to wait and she would be his, crawling and begging for that
which she had scorned.

All things that he desired would soon be his. Was he not master of the
Emerald Lotus?

The sorcerer rose abruptly and picked his way with exaggerated care
through the cluster of tables that stood about the stone room. Each
held its own distinctive collection of sorcerous paraphernalia. He
shuffled past the large central table whereon sat a glass box enclosing
a small bush thickly covered with fat, ruddy leaves. The table he
sought bore a darkly stained mortar and pestle, a collection of
fluid-filled vials in a metal rack, and a long box of glossy ebony
sealed with a small, golden clasp. With shaking hands, Ethram-Fal
twisted the clasp. He opened the box and stared within with reverent
eyes.

The black box was a little longer than a man's forearm and as wide and
tall as a man's hand. It was about half full of deep green powder.

"Half gone," whispered the Stygian, unaware that he spoke aloud. He
pursed dry lips as a frown wrinkled his protruding brow. The exuberant
confidence that had lifted his spirit a moment ago now seemed a
long-dead memory, distant and useless. A chill anxiety tightened his
guts. He had been spending too much time experimenting with his new
power and not enough tending to that which enabled him to exercise the
power in the first place. He must see to the Emerald Lotus, and perhaps
harvest more for his personal stock.

He swept aside the blanket that hung over the doorway—there were no
doors in the Palace of Cetriss. The dark hall was a smooth shaft cut
through solid stone. Ethram-Fal hastened along its length, his sandaled
feet raising the dust of centuries. He passed down a spiral stair that
coiled through the ancient rock and entered a short,

vaulted room that ended in another hanging blanket. Beyond the blanket
stood the Great Chamber, doubtless used as an audience hall by Cetriss
in the days of Old Stygia. Now it served as an impromptu barracks for
Ethram-Fal's twenty men-at-arms.

The three warriors lounging in the Great Chamber leapt to their feet
when Ethram-Fal entered, slapping their right palms over their hearts.
The sorcerer smiled thinly, nodding his approval of their attentive
devotion. When he had left Kheshatta in search of the Palace of Cetriss
and his dreams, he had taken pains to hire the finest and most
expensive squad of free lances that he could find. His riches and the
fat, red leaves of the Vendhyan kaokao plant had fostered a powerful
loyalty in them.

Threading his way among the cots in the Great Chamber, Ethram-Fal
smiled. The wizards of the Black Ring had belittled him for devoting
himself to the magics of plants and growing things. Such arrogance!
They had likened him to a Pictish druid, as if he had anything at all
in common with those meek and feeble tree-worshippers. Those ignorant
savages feared to so much as disturb the delicate balance of nature,
much less to seize it and bend it to their will. Surely the pompous
fools of the Black Ring would think differently of him now. He, a
wizard whom they had mocked and rejected for his youth and unlikely
fields of study, had truly come into his own. The specialized
researches that they had disdained had finally led him to the lost
palace of the mage Cetriss, creator of the mythical Emerald Lotus. Soon
enough the Black Ring would learn that the lotus was no mere myth, but
an ancient reality that he, Ethram-Fal, had personally resurrected. How
they would marvel at his power! How they would beg to sample it! From
the dust of three thousand years, he would breed a vengeance such as
the world had never known.

Lost in his drugged reverie, Ethram-Fal moved down another hallway into
a vast, unlit chamber. The Stygian started when he realized where he
was and hastened his stride. To his left towered a sable shadow, a
deeper darkness amid the dark. It was a great crouching statue of black
stone, a sphinx-like, hulking god-thing whose name and nature were
unknown to Ethram-Fal. When he had first found the palace and wandered
through its deserted halls—the only visitor in many lifetimes—he had
found something in this room as disturbing as the black and nameless
idol itself. On the stone altar that lay between the proffered talons
of the god was a dusty pile of offal. The tiny, desiccated corpses of
dozens of rodents, lizards, scorpions and other even smaller vermin lay
in a neat mound before the silent and implacable avatar. Now he hurried
through the darkened temple and did not look upon the featureless face
of the god of Cetriss where it loomed in the murk, staring blindly into
the darkness as it had ever since the distant days of purple-towered
Acheron.

Down a final length of hall and around a corner, the sorcerer came upon
his captain, Ath, standing guard beside a doorway. A luminous sphere of
crystal filled a niche in the wall. It gave off a steady yellow-green
glow that painted the soldier's polished armor with warm light.

"My Lord," said Ath, bowing low.

"Light," commanded Ethram-Fal, striding past his tall captain and into
the circular chamber. The small room remained as it had ever been, save
that light globes had been placed in niches set to either side of the
doorway. Ath touched these with his own globe, and they brightened so
that the cylindrical room blazed with light.

Above their heads the band of writhing hieroglyphics that encircled the
walls was clearly visible. Above that a circular balcony of black metal
spanning the room's circumference could now be seen. Higher still
arched the chamber's domed roof. But the two men's eyes rose no higher
than the floor.

In the center of the room lay the leathery husk of a human body wrapped
in a tangle of dry, thorny growths. The withered corpse of Ethram-Fal's
luckless apprentice, still clad in yellow tatters, was embedded in the
tight embrace of dozens of crooked and browning branches. There were no
flowers to be seen.

"Blood of Mordiggian!" Ethram-Fal cursed as fear swelled in his voice.
"It is dying!" A sick horror swept through his body, weakening his
limbs and closing his throat. Had he killed his dreams even as they
were being born, and done so with stupid negligence? The thought was
too much to bear. The little sorcerer swayed on his feet.

"Ath," he rasped, "fetch a pack pony." The soldier turned to the door.
"Hurry!" cried his master, as Ath ran from the room.

The captain was gone long enough for Ethram-Fal to scourge himself a
thousand times over because of the foolish and unnecessary nature of
his predicament. When he finally heard the scuff of boots and hooves in
the outer hall, he felt the relief that comes with action.

Ath led the party's smallest pack pony into the circular room. The
horse was dun-colored and long-maned. Saddleless, it stood blinking in
the unnatural yellow-green illumination as the soldier bent and hobbled
its legs with lengths of rawhide.

"Here," said Ethram-Fal, "bring it here."

Ath cooed softly to the beast, drawing it forward. Suddenly, the pony
seemed to notice the overgrown corpse and shied away, eyes rolling
whitely.

"Here, Ath!" insisted the sorcerer. The tall soldier pulled helplessly
at the horse's reins.

"He's afraid, My Lord."

Ethram-Fal snatched out his irregularly shaped dagger and moved toward
the hobbled pony with the abrupt swiftness of a pouncing spider.

Ath drew back involuntarily at the sight of his master advancing with
clenched teeth, wild eyes, and bared steel. The sorcerer seized the
pony's forelock and slashed its throat with a single quick, brutal
stroke. The beast gave a pathetic whinnying cry as its blood splashed
on the stone floor. It reared, then fell forward on its knees as
Ethram-Fal staggered back, crimsoned knife in one rigid fist.

There was a sound like the dry crumpling of aged parchment, and the
fungus-riddled corpse moved. Barbed growths beneath the body stirred,
rasping on rock, and the Emerald Lotus scuttled across the floor like a
gargantuan crab. It battened onto the pony, climbing the animal's
breast to sink thorned branches into its gaping throat.

"Holy Mitra!" Ath stumbled backward out of the room, his face pale as
ash; but Ethram-Fal stood his ground, held by an astonished fascination
that was stronger than fear.

The horse collapsed heavily with the nightmarish growth clutching it in
a loathsome embrace, whipping suddenly animate branches around its body
as it fell. The barbed and hooked limbs extended impossibly, lashing
the air like the tentacles of an octopus.

Realizing his danger, Ethram-Fal tried to dodge past the monstrosity
and out the door. A spiked branch flailed against his right leg in
passing, laying open the flesh of his calf and drawing a cry of pain.
The sorcerer reeled, but Ath lunged back into the room, seizing his
master's shoulders and dragging him bodily out into the hall. The two
fell against the wall opposite the doorway and would have fled had not
the Emerald Lotus suddenly ceased to move. The room went silent and the
pony's body lay still, half blanketed by the grotesque bulk of the
vampiric fungus.

Ethram-Fal bent to nurse the wound in his calf, but Ath could only
stare into the circular room with wide eyes.

"That was well done, Ath. There will be an extra leaf for you tonight."
The sorcerer's voice held a satisfaction and pleasure that were lost on
his captain, who said nothing.

"I imagined that it might react more swiftly to nourishment since it
did not have to revive itself from spores," said Ethram-Fal absently as
he tightened a torn strip of his robe around his wounded calf.

"I did not expect it to seek nourishment on its own. I see now why the
room was designed as it is. We must feed it from the balcony above or
its blood madness, like that of a shark of the Vilayet Sea, may lead it
to attack us. You must have the men build some sort of door for the
room as well, Ath."

The tall captain wiped his brow and nodded mutely. Then Ethram-Fal
caught his breath as the Emerald Lotus and its prey, shuddered briefly
and broke into bloom.


Chapter Thirteen
----------------

A horseman rode through Akkharia's market square. A voluminous caftan
swathed his rangy body, as though he and his mount had already
traversed the desert wastelands far to the east. The rider sat his
horse stiffly, looking neither to the right nor left at the teeming
activity of the open-air market around him.

Beneath gaudy canopies, merchants hawked their wares to the interested
and the disinterested alike, crying out the merits of their products in
lilting, sing-song cadence. Stalls packed with richly woven clothing,
worked metals, and medicines crowded others heaped high with Shem's
bountiful harvest of dates, figs, grapes, pomegranates, and almonds.
All drew customers willing to haggle for what they sought, filling the
dusty afternoon air with the clamor of a thousand disputing voices.

A potter, clad in the spattered robes of his profession, lunged from,
his sparsely attended stall brandishing a slender ceramic flask.

"Ho, warrior!" he shouted to the rider. "I have just the wine vessel a
traveler needs! Flat enough to strap to your saddlebag and as sturdy as
stone, it will outlast a wineskin by years! With Bel as my witness, I
fired it myself and it is yours for the meager sum of three silvers!"

The man on the horse rode past as though he heard nothing, not even
turning his head to look upon the insistent merchant. The potter's
continued declamation of the wonders of his work were soon lost in the
tumult as the rider moved on.

The city wall loomed ahead, a massive fortification of sun-bleached
brick that rose to four times the height of a tall man. The imposing
caravan gate stood wide open, but was clogged with travelers both
entering and leaving Akkharia. The arched opening was decorated with
inlaid tiles of vivid blue; two golden ceramic dragons struggled above
the gate in a time-worn bas relief.

The rider nudged his skittish horse into the slow stream of humanity
before the towering gate. He drew the eyes of the guards, for most men
led their beasts into or out of the city, and the mounted man
overtopped all heads in the seething throng. But the guards took note
of the rider's size and said nothing. After all, there was no law
against riding from the city; dismounting was merely a courtesy to the
thickly packed crowd.

Another man also noticed the horseman and shouldered into the press
toward him. He was a stout Shemite with a florid face, dressed in
colorful silks that marked him as a wealthy merchant.

"Your pardon, sir," he cried, as he struggled toward the rider. Ducking
around a wooden cart bearing stacked cages full of squawking chickens,
the merchant drew up beside the mounted man, who did not slow his pace
or otherwise acknowledge the merchant's presence.

"You're not traveling the Caravan Road alone are you? It is most
dangerous for a single traveler, even a slayer like yourself." The
merchant panted as he dodged along beside the rider, his florid face
growing even redder. "Take passage with my party and be a guard. I pay
as well as any betwixt here and Aghrapur."

The horseman did not respond. The merchant made a wordless sound of
exasperation and snatched the horse's reins, drawing the beast up short
amid the moving crowd.

"I tell you that the Caravan Road is dangerous for a man alone. Zuagirs
roam the plains as well as the hills these days. You should…"

The rider bent rigidly from the waist, leaning over and thrusting his
face into the merchant's. Eyes like frosted balls of black glass stared
out of a sunken, yellowed visage. Bearded lips twitched over clenched
teeth, throwing a pale scar into bold relief.

"Death," said the rider in a voice like two stones grating together.
The merchant released the reins and the rider put spurs to his mount,
plunging forward into the throng, out through the gate and into the
open air beyond.

The crowd dispersed along the wide, dirt road as the rider urged his
horse to a full gallop. Around him the golden sun fell upon the
sprawling, verdant grasslands of Shem, but the horseman was blind to
all but his mission. Caftan flapping about him, Gulbanda looked to the
horizon, his glazed eyes full of pain and purpose.

"Death," he said again, and the wind tore the word from his yellow
lips.


Chapter Fourteen
----------------

Caravan routes lay across the length and breadth of Shem like an
intricate system of arteries, bearing the ceaseless trade that was the
mighty nation's lifeblood. From the gleaming ziggurats of the lush
western coast to the sprawling tent-cities of the arid east, Shem, in
all her contrasts, was united by the continuous flow of commerce. The
routes the trading caravans followed ranged from broad roadways of
bare, hard-packed earth to vague trails but rarely traversed.

Two days' travel east out of Akkharia, the Caravan Road forked, sending
a branch questing north toward prosperous Eruk and ancient Shumir,
while the original route continued east toward the ill-regarded city of
Sabatea. Countless sub-routes broke south out of the main road,

seeking the smaller cities and villages built along the fertile coast
of the world-girdling River Styx.

Along the central route to Sabatea came four riders leading two
well-laden pack horses. The party moved at a steady pace upon a dusty
road that cleft luxuriant meadows blanketing low, rolling hills. The
sun shone down from a cloudless, brassy sky. Off to the north, where
the hills rose in slow undulations, a scattered herd of cattle grazed
in a sea of waving grass.

Conan of Cimmeria tugged at the throat of his new shirt of white silk,
popping stitches in the collar to loosen it around his bull neck. Also
new were the blue cotton breeches tucked into the tops of his battered
old boots. Heng Shih had reluctantly furnished the barbarian with
clothes from his own wardrobe. The size and weight of the two men were
similar, but the shape of their frames was so different that Conan
found the garments binding where they should have been loose and baggy
where they should have been tight. The collar of the shirt emitted
another pop as he pulled at it, then ripped jaggedly down across his
breast, revealing Conan's weathered and rust-spotted mail beneath.

Heng Shih winced at the tearing sound and let loose a sigh audible even
above the clomping of the horses' hooves. Turning in the saddle, Conan
gave the Khitan a wide grin of infuriating friendliness. Then the
Cimmerian nudged his mount up toward Neesa.

The scribe had never ceased looking about herself in wide-eyed wonder
since they had passed through Akkharia's gates. As Conan moved up
beside her, she took her eyes from the distant hills, lowered the hand
shading her face from the sun and favored him with a shy smile. The
barbarian nodded expressionlessly. For the last two days Neesa had
taken pains to address him only when necessary, and then to speak only
in the most bland and business-like fashion. Now her smile was warm and
friendly, if somewhat wary. He wondered once again how long he would
have to live before he found the ways of women to be predictable.

He reined up alongside the Lady Zelandra, who led the small caravan on
her roan. The sorceress took little note of him, her eyes focused on
the hazy, far-off point where the road met the horizon.

Conan noticed a bulky leather pouch attached to her belt. It thumped
heavily against her rounded hip with each step her horse took.

"Milady," said Conan roughly, "that looks to be uncomfortable. There is
room in my saddlebags. If you wish, you can stow it there."

Zelandra shook her head. "No, Conan, this is my cask of Emerald Lotus.
I must have it on my person at all times in case the craving grows too
great." As she spoke, her voice softened with shame and her gaze fell
to the road passing beneath the horses' hooves.

"Crom," murmured the Cimmerian, "you are a canny woman and a sorceress
in the bargain. How is it that you are enslaved to a magical powder?"

The barbarian's natural bluntness did not seem to disturb the Lady
Zelandra. She sat up straight in her saddle. The warm breeze drew her
silver-threaded hair out for a moment in a fluttering pennant.

"I have lived on an inheritance for all of my life, Conan. It left me
free to indulge in my studies in sorcery and the healing arts. The
inheritance is now much depleted. Of almost a score of servants, now
only Heng Shih, Neesa, and a pair of drunken guardsmen remain."

Conan, having witnessed the incompetence of her guardsmen firsthand,
merely nodded. "With the inheritance gone, you sought employment with
King Sumuabi as his Court Wizard."

"Yes, it seemed a worthy way to continue my lifestyle as scholar and
sorceress. I should have been granted the position immediately if
Shakar the Keshanian had not also offered his services to the king. To
think that Sumuabi cannot choose between that jester and me!"

The Cimmerian frowned reflectively. "I have heard rumors that King
Sumuabi may soon lead Akkharia to war. If this be so, he would likely
seek a wizard with war-like skills. Perhaps he meant to set you and the
Keshanian at each other's throats and select the stronger as his
sorcerer."

Zelandra looked at the barbarian, her brows raised in surprise. "I
hadn't thought of that. How barbaric!" She flushed. "I'm sorry, Conan.
I didn't mean—"

"It is nothing, though that sort of guile sounds damned civilized to
me."

"Well, we were at a stand-off in any case. When Ethram-Fal sought
audience with me in the guise of Eldred the Trader, I was pleased to
see that he offered a number of rare and exotic magical components for
sale. I should have been more wary when he claimed to have acquired a
quantity of the Emerald Lotus."

"You knew of this lotus?"

"It is legend, supposedly created by Cetriss, a mage of Old Stygia, who
bargained with the Dark Gods for it. It is said that the sorcerous
power of the lotus helped the seers of Old Stygia keep the
world-hungering empire of Acheron at bay almost three thousand years
ago. Legends disagree as to its uses and effect, but all agree that
Cetriss saw little value in his lotus or in any of the works of man and
that he devoted his life to the pursuit of immortality. Disdaining his
fame and power, he disappeared into the wilderness, taking the secret
of the Emerald Lotus with him. You see? The Emerald Lotus is like the
perfect love philter or the fountain whose waters bestow youth: a fable
born of men's wishful imagining."

Conan squinted skeptically in the sun. "Yet you accepted it from a
stranger?"

"It was easy to ascertain that it was not a natural lotus and easier
still to determine that it was not a poison. When Eldred—I mean
Ethram-Fal—told me that he had just sold a casket of it to Shakar the
Keshanian, I felt bound to at least experiment with the stuff. How
could I know?" She paused, mouth twisting into a wry smile. "He sold it
to me at a very reasonable price," she added with measured irony,
drawing a gusty laugh from the barbarian.

"I'll wager he did at that. And the next thing you know the powder has
you by the throat?"

Zelandra's left hand shot out to seize his thick right forearm in a
cold-fingered grasp. She stared at the Cimmerian with darkly imploring
eyes.

"You don't know what it's like. When I first sampled it I felt that
there was nothing in the world that I might attempt that would not come
to success. There was a mad confidence and exhilaration unlike anything
I have ever known. My sorcery almost doubled in its potency. Complex
spells seemed obvious. Spells I knew increased in power and
effectiveness. It was like a wild and glorious dream until it began to
fade. Then came the craving, and I knew that I was lost."

Her hand fell from his arm. She blinked rapidly, as though holding back
tears. Conan pretended not to notice her discomfiture, looking ahead
wordlessly.

"It is like a leech upon the flesh of my soul." Zelandra's voice had
dropped to a husky whisper, but she continued to speak as though driven
by some grim compulsion. "At first I could think of nothing but the
damnable powder and the power it brought, but I held myself in check. I
vowed that each dose I took would be smaller than the last, if only by
a few grains. And so it has been since the first time I tasted it. I
had hoped to lower the quantity until I needed none. It is not so easy.
My supply is running low and there is simply not enough left to safely
purge myself of it. If I could get more, then I might be able to taper
off completely, but without a greater supply of Emerald Lotus I shall
surely die."

For a moment there was a silence, broken only by the scuff of hooves,
the creaking of saddle gear, and the soft surge of the summer wind.

"So," Conan said evenly, "we ride into Stygia and maybe into hell
itself just to get you more of this cursed powder?"

"No!" Zelandra's head snapped up, her profile hawklike against the
clear sky. "No, Ethram-Fal deceived and poisoned me as an experiment.
And now the arrogant bastard would use his drug's power over me to make
me his slave. I'll see him die for it."

The Cimmerian grinned fiercely and, digging his heels into his horse's
flanks, urged the beast to greater speed.


Chapter Fifteen
---------------

Though Shakar the Keshanian was exhausted after slaying his bodyguard
and performing necromancy upon the corpse, the sorcerer could not take
his rest. Time seemed to slow in its course, evening moving into night
with glacial deliberation. All through the following day he meditated
in his chambers, striving to stabilize his drugged metabolism and fill
himself with strength. At first he was successful. Shakar was proud of
the power that he had exhibited in the ensorcellment of Gulbanda.
Without the unnatural augmentation of the Emerald Lotus, he doubted
that he would have been able to accomplish it. Pride in his achievement
gave him faith and courage.

But into the second day his body weakened and his consciousness fell
into a tighter and tighter orbit around the small silver box which lay
upon the mahogany desk in his study. Now he sat at his window, staring
out through his garden without seeing it and sipping nervously from the
crystal decanter of Brythunian wine he had used to lull Gulbanda.
Ignoring a growing tightness in his breast, the Keshanian turned his
mind once again to the skilled wizardry he had worked upon his
bodyguard, trying to draw comfort from the abomination that he had
created and set in motion to accomplish his ends.

"He'll get it," said Shakar to the empty room. "He won't fail. He'll
bring it to me or I'll leave his soul sealed within his animated corpse
forever. He won't fail because only I can release him into true death."
He paused, then repeated: "He will not fail." His voice trailed off as
he began to fear that which he had not even allowed himself to imagine
until this moment.

What if Gulbanda did not return in time?

The most impressive feat of sorcery that he had ever performed had been
brought about by a great sacrifice. The silver-chased box on his desk
was empty. The two spoonfuls that he had taken before slaying Gulbanda
with the bamboo spike had been the last, save for a few speckles of
green residue.

The tightness in his breast grew more insistent, more difficult to
ignore. Shakar turned his eyes away from the west, where the sun set in
a bloody welter of tattered clouds, and looked upon the silver box
where it gleamed dully in the study's serene twilight. The Keshanian
rose from his chair in a halting manner, as though his body were not
set on doing that which his mind desired. He walked slowly to the desk
and stared down upon the burnished silver casket.

Pain blossomed in Shakar's chest, sending strident bands of tense agony
around his torso. The sorcerer cried out and stumbled against the desk,
seizing the silver box with hands that shook uncontrollably, hands that
pried open the casket to reveal that which he already knew to be true.

"Empty," wept Shakar. "I know that it's empty." Slumping against the
desk, he held the cold metal box to his breast and tried to draw a deep
breath. The belt of pain that wrapped his ribs loosened a notch.

Through the door the Keshanian saw a flicker of yellow light play along
the wall of the hallway outside his study. He blinked in the deepening
dusk. A sudden surge of hope drove new vitality through the sorcerer's
veins. He pushed himself away from the desk with one hand and stumbled
toward the door, still clutching his box. The sinking sun's last rays
stained the floor scarlet before him as he half walked, half staggered
down the hall. Ahead, flares of multicolored light shone through the
open door of his bedchamber.

"Eldred?" The name was a harsh croak. "Eldred, I must speak with you!"

Shakar came into his chamber just as the vaporous haze of colored light
finished weaving itself together and faded to white. He stood
unsteadily before the supernatural projection as the ebony figure
coalesced within its wall of witchfire and regarded him in inscrutable
silence. Shakar's teeth ground together in the stillness.

"Speak, Jullah rend your soul! You are Eldred the Trader, are you not?"

The veils of light masking the dark form drew back, exposing a short,
bearded Shemite in a merchant's silken garb. The image blurred almost
immediately, wavering like a desert mirage.

"Fool," said a voice that was not a voice, "do you imagine that a
trader would visit you thus?"

The Shemite merchant faded from view, becoming a hunched Stygian with a
bald, misshapen skull. Bulging eyes afire with contempt seemed to sear
into Shakar's body.

"Who are you?" cried the Keshanian. "Why do you torment me?"

"I am called Ethram-Fal and I do not torment you. I study you. From
your aspect I would hazard that your supply of lotus is gone."

Shakar's mind reeled in a rush of dizzy nausea. A hysterical laugh came
through lips drawn back from teeth clenched in a death-like rictus.

"Study?" shouted the Keshanian. "Are you mad? Where is the lotus? I'll
give you all I have for more of it!"

"Yes," said Ethram-Fal, "of course you would. Tell me, when did you use
the last of it?"

Shakar forcibly calmed himself, drawing in a long, shuddering breath.
The hand that gripped the silver box clung to its burden so tightly
that pain rippled through the knuckles.

"Yesterday morning I used it in a feat of great sorcery. I need more
to—"

"Yesterday morning? You are stronger than I had thought. Has the pain
begun yet?" The voice of Ethram-Fal was clinical and expressionless.
Shakar could scarcely contain his rage and need.

"Yes!" he cried. "My chest is gripped in a vise of fire. Now give me
the lotus!"

"Silence!" Ethram-Fal's command rang in the Keshanian's brain like a
struck gong, driving him to his knees with its force.

A roiling cloud of inky blackness poured over the Stygian's scornful
features, transforming him once again into an anonymous black figure
suspended in a curtain of misty light.

"Who are you to command me, dog? You are too weak and witless to even
make a good slave. Take solace in the fact that you have provided a
lesson to Ethram-Fal of Stygia and thus aided him in his grand design."

With an inarticulate howl of hate, Shakar opened the silver box and
brought it to his face. Thrusting out his tongue, he licked the
polished inner surface clean. He hurled the box aside and staggered
drunkenly to his feet.

"I'll kill you!" he railed, moving both hands in a swift, arcane series
of motions that ceased with both fists extended toward the dark form of
Ethram-Fal. A crystalline sphere of azure light shimmered into being
before them. It hovered a brief moment, then fell in upon itself,
extinguished like a torch in a downpour as Shakar cried out in anguish.

"Your powers fade," said the voice that was not a voice. "You might
want to cut your own throat. That would" be both quicker and easier
than the death which now awaits you. Goodbye, Shakar."

The Keshanian lunged at the apparition with flailing fists, passed into
it without resistance and rebounded from the marble wall. He sprawled
on the floor, stunned, with Ethram-Fal's frigid, metallic laughter
sounding in his skull. Prone and helpless, Shakar watched the eldritch
projection flow into itself and fade until all that remained was an
afterimage etched upon his retina.

The Keshanian tried to get up, but his legs felt paralyzed. The
tortured nerves of his body jerked spasmodically as pain screwed
tightly back around his chest. The effect was spreading, flickering up
the sides of his neck to drive nails of agony into his temples. A
desperate sanity surfaced in the black warlock's brimming eyes.
Crawling from the room, Shakar dragged himself down the hallway to his
study. The labored rasp of his breathing was the only sound in the dim
and silent house. His legs were useless and the bands around his chest
constricted until he grew dizzy and held to conscious action only
through sheer force of will.

In the study he used his arms to draw himself up the front of his desk
and jerk open a drawer. It fell from the desk, spilling its contents
upon the floor. The black-crystal vial broke with a liquid crunch,
spattering the marble with translucent syrup. Shakar let himself fall
down beside it, his hands seeking and finding the bamboo spike. He held
the bloodstained weapon before rheumy eyes that strained to focus on
its razor edge. Both hands gripped the spike firmly by the hilt as he
placed its keen length against the flesh of his throat.

Then Shakar the Keshanian took Ethram-Fal's advice.


Chapter Sixteen
---------------

Evening slumbered over the darkened mansion of Lady Zelandra. The
single iron gate set in the encircling wall was chained and locked
against the oncoming night. The two guards lounged in the kitchen,
eating little and drinking much, swearing that they would take at least
one more turn around the grounds before abandoning themselves to their
cups. In time they did this, shuffling off along the garden's paths,
passing their wineskin back and forth and speaking in hushed voices.

The stillness of dusky twilight filled the emptied mansion. The halls
were dark, the windows curtained and the tapers all unlit. The manse
seemed to lie tranquilly in wait for the return of its mistress. Yet
amid the darkness and silence came a visitor unsuspected by the
besotted guards.

The wall of Lady Zelandra's bedchamber was alight with blazing color.
Wild shadows leapt and capered over the book-lined walls and the
opulent, unmade bed. Then a white glare shone from the wall, driving
the shadows from every corner of the room.

Ethram-Fal's ebon outline floated in its fog of illumination and
regarded an empty chamber. The black, featureless head turned this way
and that, as though reluctant to believe that no one was there.
Frustrated, the Stygian sent an emphatic, wordless call through the
still mansion.

"Zelandra! I have come for you!"

The sorcerer sensed no response, no activity at all. The dark form
hesitated, standing motionless for a time, then moved tenebrous fingers
in quick, precise patterns and lifted both arms above its head. Rays of
brilliant green light bloomed around Ethram-Fal's image in a dazzling
corona. Then with the slow, unnatural movements of a man walking
underwater, the black figure stepped down from the wall and stood
within the room. It walked across the floor to the doorway and into the
hall beyond.

Ethram-Fal passed through the deserted chambers of Lady Zelandra's
mansion like a restless ghost, leaving behind him footprints of palely
flickering witchfire. After a time he returned to the lady's
bedchamber, ascended into his haze of sorcerous light and vanished.
Zelandra's house was empty; its mistress had departed.

Ethram-Fal wondered if he might soon have visitors of his own.


Chapter Seventeen
-----------------

The travelers crested the summit of a red clay ridge and viewed the
broad expanse of the Styx River valley spread out before them. The
trail zigzagged down a rolling slope through a thickening welter of
vegetation. The land had grown more arid as they moved south and drew
closer to Stygia, but the shores of the mighty Styx were anything but
desert. Green brush crowded the path as they wended their way through
clusters of swaying palms and plush meadows rippling in the slow
breeze. Ahead, the land lowered further into irrigated fields that
reached to the edge of the river itself. Yellow-brown along its shore
and a rich, opalescent blue at its rolling median, the mother of all
rivers stretched from horizon to horizon like a jeweled and sorcerous
girdle bestowing a luxuriant fertility upon the grateful earth.

Though cultivated along much of its vast length, the shores of the Styx
were but sparsely populated this far to the east. Scattered clusters of
huts, raised upon stilts, were visible in the distance off to the west.
Directly before them, the party beheld a small, unwalled city squatting
upon a low, artificial plateau that lifted gently from the
canal-crossed fields. A similarly raised road ran amongst the
glittering irrigation ditches and broad, cultivated expanses like a
sand-colored snake writhing across a bed of lush emerald moss. The road
connected the raised city with the drier uplands, where it merged with
the Caravan Road that stretched uninterrupted along the length of the
River Styx.

As the four descended the trail into the river valley, they began to
encounter the natives of this long-inhabited land. They waited at a
crossroads while a herd of lowing cattle was ushered past by herdsmen
brandishing stout sticks that they applied vigorously to the flanks of
their charges. Farmers toiled in the irrigated fields of emmer wheat
and barley that sprang in abundance from the land's black and silty
breast.

The trail became an elevated road that soon afforded them a closer view
of the white mud buildings of the city. Neesa waved a slender hand in
the humid air, fanning herself. At the moment they rode single file,
with the Lady Zelandra leading the way. Neesa knit her dark brows in
thought, then edged her mount forward until she rode beside the
Cimmerian.

"What city is this?" she asked of Conan. The barbarian grinned at her
in open admiration, clearly pleased that she had overcome her
unwillingness to speak with him. She continued to study the city ahead
of them intently, apparently unnoticing of his attention, though her
complexion began to grow rosy.

"It is called Aswana. It has a sister city just across the Styx called
Bel-Phar. Aswana is a quiet village and should give us a fine place to
cross the river without drawing too much attention."

"The Stygians are said to be unfond of visitors."

"Aye, the snake worshippers would deny every foreigner the right to
enter their cursed country if they could. Their border patrols are few,
but authorized by King Ctesphon to collar any intruder they wish and
judge on the spot if he is worthy to stand on Stygian soil."

"And if he is judged unworthy?"

"Well, any merchant whose trade would fatten the land or a fawning
scholar come to pay homage to Father Set would be left to his own ends.
The best that most anyone else could hope for would be robbery and a
quick kick back across the border. At worst, they'd be crucified at the
roadside."

Neesa shivered despite the bright sun, then spat into the ditch.

"And here we come as uninvited visitors," she said. Conan laughed,
shaking back his black mane.

"Don't fret, woman. The patrols are few and the land is large. And
besides, I'm going with you!"

Laughing, Neesa leaned from her saddle and pressed a swift kiss upon
the barbarian's cheek. Then she put her heels to her mount, sending the
beast trotting forward and away to Lady Zelandra's side, leaving Conan
rubbing his cheek and grinning in bemused fascination. Neither the
Cimmerian nor Neesa took notice of Heng Shih, who rode a short distance
behind them. His incredulous expression attested that he had missed
nothing of their exchange. The Khitan passed a wide hand over his
smooth pate and shook his head in wonder.

Lady Zelandra led her band of travelers along the river's flank.
Sweating workers clad only in breechclouts hoisted water from the
darkly flowing body of the Styx with the aid of simple mechanisms made
of lashed lengths of rough wood. A crude tripod supported an irregular
pole with a heavy counterweight on one end, and a large bucket dangled
from a rope on the other. The bucket was lowered until it was
submerged, then the workers would add their bodies to the
counterweight, lifting the full bucket from the river. Finally, the
pole would be turned atop the tripod, swinging the bucket over the
shore and dumping it into a waiting irrigation canal. To Conan it
seemed a tedious way of making one's living.

Once among the white buildings of Aswana, the travelers became objects
of much interest. Although the cobbled streets of the city were
bustling with activity, Conan's band was conspicuous and exotic enough
to draw the attention of the townsfolk. Naked children ran in the dust
beside their horses' hooves, crying out to one another in shrill
voices. A woman clad only in a diaphanous veil leaned from a
second-story window and winked a kohl-darkened eye at the Cimmerian,
who raised a hand in salutation, smiling until he felt the sharp and
indignant eyes of Neesa upon him. When he turned his smile upon her she
looked away, flushing.

Conan slowed in front of a low, windowless building with a crude sign
proclaiming it to be a tavern. As he reined in his mount, a lean man in
a faded, sweat-stained tunic emerged from the curtained doorway and
stood blinking in the afternoon sun.

"Ho, friend," called the barbarian. "Where can I find an honest
ferryman in this town?" The man he addressed took on a sour expression
as he fingered the dirty headband that confined his tousled, graying
hair.

"Well, you won't find one now because Pesouris, may Set gnaw his cod,
just took a load of acolytes across this morning. If I know that lazy
cur, he shan't be back before nightfall."

"Isn't there another ferryman?"

"No, by the gods. I was a ferryman until the damned Stygians decided
that one ferry was enough for Aswana and gave a royal seal to that pig
Pesouris. Now he waxes rich, and I am left to test my luck fishing from
a ferryboat."

Conan leaned toward the man conspiratorially, fixing him with a knowing
gaze.

"What's your name, my friend?"

The fellow peered back at him with faded eyes touched with the
bleariness of drink.

"I am Temoten. If you wish to speak further with me, ye'd best buy me a
drink."

"Temoten, if you still have your ferryboat, why not take us across the
Styx? You'll be plucking enough money from the purse of Pesouris to buy
yourself a week's worth of wine."

Temoten drew back at the suggestion, his weathered face creased further
by a skeptical frown. He shook his shaggy head.

"Nay. Pesouris would report me to the authorities of Bel-Phar, or even
to the border patrol if he could. And if any Stygian soldiers were
about when we made landfall, they'd want to see my ferryman's seal. As
I have none, they'd behead me there on the docks. No thank you,
stranger."

Temoten turned to walk off and almost collided with the Lady Zelandra,
who had dismounted and now stood before him dangling a leather pouch
from one delicate hand.

"My people and I need to cross the Styx without delay, Temoten," she
said, "and I'm willing to pay well for the trip. Would you want this
pouch to pass into the hands of Pesouris?"

The ferryman reached for the proffered pouch and poured a glittering
stream of golden coins into a grimy palm. At once his eyes grew wider
and more sober.

"Sweet Ishtar!" Temoten licked lips that had gone suddenly dry and
wished mightily for a drink.

"Besides," continued Zelandra, "what fool in his right mind would
contest the passage of my friends Heng Shih and Conan?"

Temoten spared a brief glance at the lady's hulking escorts before
returning his gaze to enough gold to keep him living in comfort for the
better part of a year.

"Only a very great fool, indeed," he breathed. "To nine hells with it.
Let's go. What right do the stinking Stygians have to command a free
Shemite anyway?"

"None at all, I should think," smiled Zelandra. "Now where can we find
your ferryboat?"

The boat was moored to a rotting dock behind Temoten's one-room hut on
the outskirts of Aswana. It was a once-elegant vessel of sturdy cedar
about twenty-four feet from stem to stern. A single, slim mast rose
above the deck, bearing a furled sail of faded yellow. A tattered
ox-hide canopy mounted just ahead of the long steering oar offered the
craft's only shelter from the sun. When Heng Shih came around the
corner of Temoten's hut and saw the boat for the first time, he touched
Zelandra's shoulder and communicated with her in a swift passage of
sign language.

"My friends," called Lady Zelandra, "Heng Shih points out that there is
no room in the ferry for our mounts."

Conan, pulling the saddle and saddlebags from his horse, spoke up:
"That's just as well, milady. Camels are a superior mount for desert
travel, anyway. Perhaps you and Heng Shih would take the horses into
the city and sell them."

Zelandra raised dark eyebrows. "Are you leading this company now,
barbarian?"

"No offense intended, milady, but we could use the gold earned from
their sale to purchase camels in Bel-Phar."

"That sounds suitable," said the sorceress reluctantly, "but I am
scarcely a bargain-mongering trader."

"You bargained me into this expedition easily enough. Just have Heng
Shih stare at them if they try to swindle you. I'll wager that you'll
get an excellent price."

"Very well. Temoten, is there a worthy dealer in horseflesh in the
city?"

The ferryman, standing on the dock, nodded vigorously.

"Yes, mistress, my late wife's cousin, Nephtah, deals in horses and
mules. You will find him at the northeast corner of the market square.
Tell him that I sent you and he will treat you as his family."

The remaining saddles and packs were removed from the horses. Zelandra
and Heng Shih mounted up, leading the string of riderless animals
behind them. The Khitan looked back over his heavy shoulder and fixed
his narrowed eyes upon the Cimmerian, who was busily loading saddlebags
and provisions onto the boat. Conan heaped the stuff on the worn,
red-painted planks of the deck beneath the ox-hide canopy as Zelandra
and her bodyguard rode slowly out of sight.

Temoten leaned on one of the dock's cracked pilings, studiously
examining the dirty fingernails of his left hand and making no effort
to assist the Cimmerian.

"So, Outlander, you seem to know your way around a boat."

Conan stacked a packed saddlebag atop the pile he had built beneath the
canopy. "I have some acquaintance with such things," he said quietly.

"Then you can steer, raise a sail, and the like?"

"I see that this craft would be difficult to run single-handed,
Temoten. Do not fear, I shall help you get us across the river."

The ferryman looked disgruntled, but kept his silence, staring off into
the reedy shallows. Neesa struggled down the sagging dock under the
weight of a double waterskin, which Conan took from her and heaved into
the boat. She then leapt nimbly onto the rear deck, catching the haft
of the steering oar. Clinging to it for support, she leaned out over
the vessel's side, gazing across the Styx with the wind in her thick,
black hair.

In a moment Conan joined her. The broad, sunstruck river stretched
away, flecked with distant skiffs full of fishermen plying their trade.
The air blowing in off the water was fresh and invigorating.

"It's beautiful," said Neesa dreamily. "I've never seen the Styx
before. I haven't even been out of Akkharia since I was a child."

"Crom," said Conan in a strangely gentle tone, "that's no way to live.
You have but one life and one world to live it in. Surely you should
experience both as well as you are able. Ymir's beard, I'd go mad if I
were cooped up in a single city all my life."

Neesa looked up at him, her black eyes afire with honesty. "I know it's
wrong to say it, Conan, but this journey seems the finest thing I have
ever done. All of my life I have been grateful to Lady Zelandra for her
shelter from the world, and now I find that I am enjoying myself on a
voyage made in the shadow of her death."

Conan turned his grim face to the wind. "All journeys are made in the
shadow of death," he said simply. "Live now, and know that you will
struggle with death when it comes."

The woman stepped into Conan's arms, pressing her lush body against him
with feverish intensity. The barbarian, taken aback by her fervency,
cupped a hand beneath her chin and lifted her face to his. Tears
glimmered in her dark eyes.

"Kiss me," she whispered, and Conan crushed her mouth beneath his own,
drawing her into an even closer embrace. After a moment one iron arm
encircled her waist as the other swept under her knees and lifted her
free of the deck. The kiss broke as the Cimmerian carried her to the
canopy that covered their belongings. Neesa saw that he had built a
hollow in the center of the pile and spread a blanket therein.

"Oh," she said huskily, "you think of everything." Conan ducked beneath
the canopy and gently placed her in the hidden nest of blankets.

"Why do you think I sent those two to town?" he asked, but he gave her
no chance to answer.

Out on the dock, Temoten looked from the boat back to his dirty
fingernails. With a wistful sigh he turned toward his hut and went
inside, looking for a drink.


Chapter Eighteen
----------------

The boat surged through the water, foam purling along its prow. The
Styx shone a rich blue beneath the clear sky of afternoon. Small
fishing boats made from bundles of papyrus reeds traveled in pairs,
trolling nets between them. The busy fishermen paid little heed to
Temoten's ferry; yet the ferryman seemed to grow markedly less nervous
once they left the fishing boats behind and sailed out beyond the
river's midpoint. The patched sail bellied full as Temoten leaned into
the steering oar. Beside him, on the rear deck, Conan and Heng Shih
relaxed, the barbarian sprawling along the gunwale and the Khitan
sitting cross-legged, his face to the sun. Beneath the flapping ox-hide
canopy, Lady Zelandra and Neesa sat in, the shade and conversed in low
tones.

The trio on the rear deck traveled in silence for some time. Temoten's
curious gaze returned repeatedly to Heng Shih, sitting shirtless beside
him, his yellow skin gleaming with perspiration.

"Does your friend speak at all?" the ferryman finally asked Conan, who
grinned and stretched like a cat in the sunshine. Heng Shih did not
open his eyes.

"He is a mute, though he speaks to Lady Zelandra with hand-language."

"What…" Temoten paused, then screwed up his courage. "What manner of
man is he?"

Conan thought that he saw Heng Shih's eyes glimmer beneath slitted
lids. "A Khitan from the distant east."

"I have never seen his like. Are all men of that country so big and
fat?"

Now Conan was certain that Heng Shih's eyes drew open a crack. "Not at
all," said the Cimmerian dryly. "He is truly exceptional in that
regard."

Temoten said nothing for a time, clinging to the steering oar and
looking off to the hazy outline of the far shore. Conan could sense
further questions troubling the ferryman and was not surprised when a
few moments later Temoten spoke again.

"Why are you in such a hurry to cross the Styx, Conan? And why pay me
so much to take you? Are you fugitives? Does the Lady Zelandra flee
enemies, perhaps?" The words came quickly until Temoten bit them off.
"Not that it is any of my concern," he added, shamefaced.

"Temoten," said Conan seriously, "Heng Shih is a Khitan and Khitans are
cannibals. They eat the curious."

At this Heng Shih opened his eyes and squinted at the barbarian; then
he turned to the ferryman. Looking up at him, the Khitan slowly and
ominously licked his lips.

"My apologies, friends," stammered Temoten.

The remainder of the crossing was made in silence. Conan napped, a
bronzed arm thrown over his eyes, until he was prodded awake by
Temoten, who needed help to furl the sail.

The city of Bel-Phar was even smaller than Aswana. Its waterfront lay
somnolently along a raised foundation of mammoth stone blocks. The
Stygians were fond of cyclopean architecture; and it was a rare city of
Stygia that did not show some evidence of this fondness. The stained
and eroded stone docks of Bel-Phar thrust out into the eternally
passing Styx. Papyrus boats of all sizes, and even a few luxurious
wooden dhows, were moored in clusters about them. The center of the
waterfront appeared to be an open bazaar full of milling people and
animals. Temoten wrenched the tiller about, steering his ferry left and
to the east.

"Fewer people around the eastern docks," he said half to himself.
"Conan, can you…"

But the big Cimmerian was already moving toward the prow of the boat,
bending to catch up a long, wooden pole that lay along the starboard
gunwale. Heng Shih lifted the pole on the boat's port side and Temoten
nodded his disheveled gray head in approval.

The sun had begun its slow fall to the west and shadows appeared in the
white city before them. The rolling Styx had gradually dimmed from
transparent blue to a murky violet. The docks hove closer as the
ferryman steered his vessel to their eastern extremity.

Conan and Heng Shih drove their poles against the oncoming dock,
slowing their progress and letting the ferry slide smoothly into place
beside a worn stair carved into a solid block of stone. Temoten
scrambled forward, snatching a looped line and casting it neatly over a
bronze stay set in the dock. The man was suddenly very animated.

"All right, then. Let's move. I've fulfilled my part of the bargain.
Let's see you off." He dragged a bulky pack from beneath the canopy and
heaved it over a bony shoulder. With his eager assistance, Conan and
Heng Shih soon had all their provisions piled upon the dock.

"We'll have to leave this here and go into the market for camels and
water," said Conan. "Temoten, will you stay and watch over our
belongings?"

"Stay?" burst out the ferryman incredulously. "I'm leaving as swiftly
as I can push off."

"I'll stay," volunteered Neesa. "I feel somewhat poorly after the
crossing anyway."

Lady Zelandra, Conan, and Heng Shih headed down the dock, leaving Neesa
perched atop the heap of baggage. Temoten hesitated at the top of the
stone stair.

"Farewell, mistress," he called hesitantly. "Farewell, Conan and Heng
Shih." Zelandra turned without breaking stride and waved.

"A good wind to you," shouted Conan, raising a hand. Heng Shih did not
even look back.

Bel-Phar's entire waterfront was paved with wide plates of stone.
Though the buildings were almost identical to those of Aswana, the
atmosphere of the city was much more subdued. The quiet warehouses at
the base of the dock were soon replaced by open shops and then the
central market itself. The market was busy, if not overly crowded; but
its customers seemed warier and less outgoing than their counterparts
across the Styx. A stable of camels was located shortly, and Lady
Zelandra was immediately joined in friendly argument with its wizened,
one-eyed proprietor. Conan, who had been prepared to do the bartering,
found himself standing to one side while the sorceress examined the
proffered beasts and made derisive comments about each one in turn in
fluent Stygian. The little proprietor rose to the occasion, rubbing his
hands together with unconcealed delight and chattering pained protests
of her harsh judgments. It seemed to Conan that this was set to go on
for some time, so he cast his eyes about for a likely tavern.

Out of the moving throng of the marketplace Neesa came running. There
was such urgency in her movements that Conan froze. She stumbled to a
halt before him, her bosom rising and falling as she panted.

"Temoten," she gasped. "Stygian soldiers hailed him just as he was
casting off. I walked right past them as they came down the dock. They
didn't seem angry, but called out that they needed to see his
ferryman's seal. Conan, their captain has a kind of bow—"

"How many?" said the barbarian in a low voice. His blue eyes kindled
with a dangerous light.

"Five, I think. Six?" She lifted ivory hands helplessly. The Cimmerian
pushed past her, stepping swiftly into the crowd. A voice rose behind
him.

"Conan, no!" It was Lady Zelandra. But he was already running
heedlessly through the market toward the docks. People either dodged or
were thrust from the path of the tall outlander, who leapt over a
vegetable cart in his headlong haste. Protesting outcries rang out in
his wake but slowed him not at all.

At the foot of the dock six saddled camels waited restlessly. Out on
the dock itself stood six Stygian soldiers of the border patrol,
arrayed in gray silk and burnished mail. A pair were at the dock's far
end, appraising Temoten's ferry. One of these rubbed a stubbled chin
thoughtfully, as if gauging the craft's value. Two other soldiers were
closer, bent over and arrogantly rummaging in the pile of provisions on
the dock. The last two were closest, accosting Temoten. The taller of
this pair wore the gilded gorget of an officer and was berating the
ferryman scornfully. A small crossbow hung at the officer's belt. The
other was a shirtless hulk of a man who brandished a heavy-bladed sword
before Temoten's terrified eyes with sadistic relish.

Temoten made feeble protests, his lean frame trembling visibly. The
tall officer seized the front of the ferryman's scruffy tunic in a
mailed fist and jerked him forcibly to his knees. Temoten struggled to
rise, and the captain abruptly drove a knee into his unprotected
midsection, doubling the ferryman up in agony.

The officer stepped back and nodded perfunctorily to the shirtless
soldier with the naked sword. The executioner flexed the thick muscles
of his arms, raised the blade above his head and heard the sound of
rapid footfalls behind him.

A length of silver steel sprang from the center of his bare breast. It
caught the sun, throwing it back into his goggling eyes, then
disappeared in a gout of bright blood. As the executioner sank down
dying, Conan vaulted the body, whirling his stained broadsword, about
his head.

The officer scrabbled desperately for his belted scimitar as the
Cimmerian bore down upon him with terrible swiftness. He drove a booted
foot into the captain's belly with lithe savagery, knocking the man
from his feet and sending him skidding over the stones to the dock's
edge.

The remaining soldiers scarcely had time to perceive the fate of their
companions before the barbarian was among them like a wind hot from the
mouth of hell. The first of the two men riffling through the heap of
baggage managed to turn and get his sword half drawn before being cut
down by a blow that split helmet and head. The other soldier among the
packs got his blade free and lunged at Conan as the Cimmerian wheeled
from his second kill. The Stygian's hasty, vicious thrust was hammered
aside with such force that the sword was nearly torn from his grip.
Conan's return stroke was a blur of speed, bursting his foe's mail at
the shoulder, shearing through the collarbone and lodging in the spine.
The barbarian yanked on the hilt, but found that his blade was stuck
fast in the sagging body.

Seeing his weapon entrapped in the corpse of their comrade, the last
two soldiers advanced toward Conan from their position at the dock's
end. As they moved to attack him from two sides, the Cimmerian acted.
Gripping his hilt with both hands, the barbarian hoisted the dead man
bodily over his head and hurled him off of his sword with a convulsive
heave of his mighty shoulders. The torn corpse flopped on the stone at
the soldiers' feet.

"Come join him in hell," snarled Conan in Stygian, his eyes aflame with
unfettered bloodlust.

The soldiers were of two minds about this. The stout soldier on the
left leapt over the bloody body of his fellow and engaged Conan, while
his more gangly companion hesitated a moment before dodging around the
combatants and sprinting away down the dock. If the fighter was
dismayed by his erstwhile comrade's desertion, he didn't show it. He
carried the fight to the barbarian, sending a whistling series of
expertly aimed blows at the Cimmerian's head and torso. The strident
clangor of steel on steel rang out over the calm river. Their blades
flickered and clashed in a dire but elegant dance of death. The Stygian
rallied, driving Conan back among the scattered packs with a flurry of
skillful cuts and slashes. The heel of the barbarian's boot trod upon
the corner of a saddlebag, and he staggered, seeming to lose his
balance. His arms shot out to steady himself, and his foe lunged in.
The stumble was a ruse. Conan abruptly dropped to one knee and brought
his blade forward point-first. The Stygian's killing thrust drove him
directly onto Conan's sword. The man was transfixed, his own blade
passing harmlessly beside the barbarian's head.

For a suspended instant the tableau held; then the impaled soldier
dropped his sword to clatter loudly on the stone, and Conan sensed
movement behind him. Wrenching his weapon free of the, falling body,
Conan spun about to see the Stygian captain advancing upon him with a
small crossbow held cocked in shaking hands.

"Are you a demon?" choked the ashen-faced officer. "A bolt from my
crossbow will send you back, to hell!"

As his fingers tightened on the crossbow's trigger, Conan dove headlong
to the side, rolling over packs and saddlebags and sliding into a
crouch.

But the captain had not fired. He pointed the crossbow steadily at the
Cimmerian's breast. The barbarian's fingers sank into the cool leather
of a waterskin. He gripped it, his mind in a split-second debate as to
whether he should shield himself with the waterskin or hurl it at his
foe.

"You're damned fast," said the officer, "but now—"

The Stygian's head shot from his shoulders on a jet of liquid scarlet.
It sailed through the summer air like a child's thrown ball, falling
into the Styx with a hollow splash. The headless body stood in place
for a moment, then collapsed bonelessly. Heng Shih stood behind the
corpse. Bending ponderously, he wiped his flare-bladed scimitar upon
the captain's silken breeches.

Conan shoved himself to his feet and pointed down the length of the
dock with his dripping sword.

"That one escapes," he said grimly.

The gangly soldier who had fled from Conan was now mounted upon one of
the camels at the base of the dock. He turned a white face to the men
standing among the sprawled bodies of his fallen companions.

"You are already dead!" he shouted in a shrill voice. "I will lead the
king's men to you no matter where you hide! I'll see you dead!" His
voice broke as Conan suddenly advanced down the dock. Wheeling his
camel around, the soldier drove the beast forward and away. The
ungainly creature broke into a gallop, passing both Lady Zelandra and
Neesa upon the waterfront's stone boulevard.

As the camel and its rider hurtled toward the bazaar, Neesa turned
smoothly, watching them go by. With supple grace she pulled the knife
from her nape sheath and drew her arm back as though cocking it.
Conan's lips grew tight as the rider moved swiftly away from the woman.
Precious seconds fled, and Neesa stood motionless. Then her body
uncoiled, sending the knife flying after the Stygian. It struck square
between the man's shoulder blades.

The soldier slouched lifeless over the neck of his mount. The camel
slowed to a trot, then a walk, and then stopped altogether. The man's
limp body fell to the pavement, where his mount sniffed at it
indifferently.

Temoten was crouched cowering on the carven stone stair. His mouth
opened and closed several times before words issued forth.

"Ishtar, Ashtoreth, Mitra, and Set! I have never seen such things in
all my life!" He stared at Conan as though the barbarian had sprouted
antlers. "Where did you learn to fight like that? Who is this woman who
can hurl a dagger so? Who in nine hells are you people?"

Conan cleaned his blade and sheathed it.

"Be silent, Temoten, else I shall wish I had let the headsman finish
his job."

"Yes, yes," sputtered the ferryman. "I thank you."

A small crowd was gathering at the base of the dock. From their midst
came Lady Zelandra, her noble face dark with fury. Heng Shih ran a hand
over his bald pate and became interested in the setting sun.

"You great idiots! Now we shall have to fight the entire Stygian army!"

"I doubt it," said Conan easily. "I'm surprised that there were this
many soldiers in town. And I couldn't let them behead Temoten and steal
our gear, could I?" Zelandra's anger did not abate.

"And how shall we deal with these people?" She waved a hand toward the
burgeoning crowd. "Shall we kill them, too?"

"We need not deal with them at all. The soldiers have kindly left us
their camels. We shall be gone before the good people of Bel-Phar
decide if they wish to fight us or not. Come, let us load our packs
onto our new mounts. Temoten, you should get the hell out of here."

The ferryman hurriedly cast off his line and leapt from the dock
without another word. Using one of the poles, he pushed his ferry into
the river and then poled out beyond the shallows. As the four looked
on, his sail unfurled and caught the wind with a resounding snap.

Neesa led back the camel whose rider she had slain, and the party
busied itself loading their gear onto the uncooperative beasts. The
crowd grew larger, some men even venturing down the dock to examine the
bodies, but no one hindered the imminent departure of the travelers.
The soldiers did not seem to have been popular men. When Conan and his
comrades rode out of Bel-Phar, the crowd parted to let them pass. The
Cimmerian saw curious faces and fearful faces, but none who threatened
to bar his passage.

As they rode free of the town's stone foundation out onto the arid soil
of Stygia, Conan turned in his saddle and looked back across the Styx.
The sail of Temoten's ferry was a small, sable silhouette moving
against the purple breast of the evening sky. For a long moment, Conan
watched it surging away, then turned back to the road that lay ahead.


Chapter Nineteen
----------------

Ethram-Fal and his captain, Ath, rode down from highlands of stone into
a measureless desert of sand and gravel. They led eight riderless
camels through an oppressive haze of heat. The unrelenting sun blasted
the landscape with a merciless glare, hammering the crumbling soil so
that waves of dizzying heat were reflected up from the ground to meet
those falling from the sky.

The jagged saw-teeth of the Dragon's Spine lay against the horizon
behind them. From the rugged, rocky crests of the highland ridges, the
land descended gradually in an irregular series of broken foothills and
canyon-cracked plateaus until it opened out into level desert.

The pair rode in silence. Ath wore full armor beneath a flowing white
cloak but seemed to take little notice of the heat. Ethram-Fal wore a
baggy, hooded caftan that was far too large for his stunted body. Every
few moments, with mechanical regularity, he brought a goatskin full of
watered wine and Emerald Lotus powder to his lips and drank.

As the white sun hove past its apogee in the colorless dome of the sky,
the crusted gravel beneath their camels' hooves slowly gave way to
rolling dunes of ochre sand. The flowing dunes reached to the
shimmering horizon, seeming to stretch to the rim of the world. Only an
occasional outcrop of ruddy stone, carved cruelly by erosion, broke the
monotony of the vast sea of sand.

It was well into the afternoon when the sorcerer and his soldier
crested a massive dune and looked down its long slope at a sight to
give a traveler joy. An oasis lay upon the naked desert like a bright
broach of emerald and turquoise pinned to the breast of a withered
mummy. A cluster of vegetation, impossibly vivid against the sand,
surrounded a pool struck radiant by the sun.

"There," said Ath needlessly, lifting a long arm to point. Ethram-Fal
merely nodded and urged his camel on.

Only hardy scrub clung to the outer boundaries of the oasis, but close
to the pool the growth was lush and plentiful. A tall date palm stood
beside the water. At the base of its trunk lay the tattered remnants of
a simple lean-to, left behind by some traveler.

The two men rode to the pool's edge and dismounted, falling to their
bellies to drink the warm, clear water. Ath finished his drink,
splashed his face and went to work. A set of four large ceramic water
jugs was strapped across the back of each camel. Ath began filling them
one at a time, wading out into the pool to submerge the jug and then
climbing out to refasten it to a camel's saddle. Ethram-Fal sat
cross-legged in the shade of a date palm and watched.

"Ath," he said after a time, "I have been so absorbed in my researches
that I have seen little of the men. Do they grow lax from inactivity?"

"No, milord," panted Ath, hoisting a heavy-laden jug from the pool. "I
drill them three times each day in the courtyard, and they entertain
themselves sparring with one another or hunting the rest of the day."
Rills of water ran along the captain's arms as he tied the full jug
into place upon the disgruntled animal, who shifted unhappily beneath
the added weight.

"They hunt? What is there to hunt?"

"Tiny antelope, milord. The men have only caught one and now place bets
as to who shall catch the next."

Ethram-Fal scowled in resentment. "If they catch another, I want a
portion of its flesh. Fresh meat would be much superior to our tedious
provisions."

Ath waded back into the pool, relishing the flow of water over his
skin. "Yes, milord." The next jug bubbled as it filled.

"So their morale is good?" The sorcerer drank from his wineskin and
gave a barely perceptible shudder. Ath hesitated a moment before
replying.

"There were some complaints when you forbade torches within the palace,
and the glass balls of light that you gave us to take their place made
some of the men nervous."

Ethram-Fal frowned, then waved a hand in dismissal. "There will be no
fire of any kind inside the palace. I touched a petal of the lotus to a
candle and it burned faster than dry pine. Tell the men that any who
break this rule will pay with their lives."

"Yes, milord."

"And why the concern about my light-globes? Are the superstitious fools
afraid of them?"

"Some said that they were unnatural and feared to touch them. I proved
that they were harmless by holding several at once. All seem to accept
them now."

"By Set's shining coils," Ethram-Fal chuckled dryly, shaking his head.
"These warriors are a weak-minded lot. The light-globes are merely a
sea plant sealed in crystal. The magical enhancement is minimal. Well
then, are they otherwise content? Do they quarrel amongst themselves?"

"No quarrels, milord. But I've added an additional' guard to each shift
after nightfall."

"Two men per shift? That's of little consequence. But why? Does the
night watch grow lonely?"

"Not lonely enough, milord. The past two nights the sentries of the
third shift reported that something was skulking among the rocks at the
canyon mouth." Ethram-Fal sat up straight.

"Something or someone?" he demanded, "What did they see?"

"By Derketo's ivory teats, milord, I had hoped not to tell you of this.
I am shamed to say that the men simply grow fearful when left on guard
alone after dark, so I added an extra man to each shift."

"What did the guards see or hear, Ath? Answer my question now or know
great pain." The sorcerer's voice was taut with displeasure.

"Y-yes," stuttered the soldier, dropping his jug so that it sank into
the pool. "I do not mean to displease you, milord. The first night
Teh-Harpa thought that he heard something moving in the rocks and, when
he went to investigate, thought he saw two shining eyes."

"An animal," declared Ethram-Fal.

"Just so," said Ath, bending to pick up his jug once again. "The second
night Phandoros heard sounds of movement and thought that he heard a
voice speaking."

"A voice?" The sorcerer came to his feet. "Who was there?"

Ath flinched, holding the water jug before his chest as if it were a
talisman against his master's imperious gaze.

"No one, milord. Phandoros scoured the canyon mouth with a torch and
found nothing. He was too ashamed to tell me of his fear. I only
learned of the matter when I overheard the men discussing it among
themselves. All agreed that Phandoros was mistaken and that it was an
animal foraging in the dark. I added the second sentry so that these
stories would not work upon the imagination of guards left all alone."

"Yes," said Ethram-Fal, sitting down once again. "That was wise, Ath."

The tall soldier breathed easier and went back to the safe business of
filling water jugs. He labored without speaking for some time, but the
silent scrutiny of his master grew onerous.

"Our supply of water was quite good, milord. Do you need all these
extra jugs filled for some great magic?"

Ethram-Fal laughed condescendingly, smoothing his caftan over bony
knees. "It is my intention not to return to this oasis for some time. I
wish us to be well supplied with water."

Ath hoped that his master would elaborate, but the sorcerer said
nothing more. At last the final jug was sealed and lashed into place
upon the shaggy back of an unhappy camel. Ath squatted beside the pool,
sipping water from a cupped palm and catching his breath.

Ethram-Fal stood and stretched himself in the shade of the date palm.
Hitching the strap of his wineskin over a shoulder, he walked to the
pool's edge and pointed into the shallows.

"Ath, use your dagger to dig a small hole in the sand there."

"Milord?" The soldier obediently, drew his dagger, but looked into the
water quizzically.

"There," snapped Ethram-Fal impatiently, "beneath the surface before
you."

Ath stepped into the pool, splashing diamond droplets in the sun as he
hastened forward. Knee deep, he bent and used the blade of his dagger
to carve a pit in the sandy mud of the pool's bottom.

"Deeper," commanded the sorcerer, peering over Ath's bent shoulder.
"Not wide, but deep." Swirling particles clouded the water as the
soldier worked, obscuring his progress, but in a moment Ethram-Fal
seemed satisfied.

"Good enough. Now out of the way." Ath stepped back and climbed out of
the pool, thrusting his dagger into the sand to dry. He regarded his
master with wary curiosity.

Ethram-Fal waded awkwardly out into the water, his oversize caftan
floating out behind him. He stopped beside the hole Ath had dug and
pulled something from a pocket. He held it out in an open palm, and Ath
saw that it was a flattened, black ovoid with a thick seam running
around its edge. It filled the sorcerer's hand and had the organic
appearance of a monstrously overgrown seed. Ath had never seen anything
like it before.

Ethram-Fal whispered words in a language dead thirty centuries, and the
black seed twitched in his palm. Bending slowly and reverently, the
sorcerer lowered his hand to the smooth surface of the pool and
whispered once again. The words rasped together like dry bones. A
tangled network of veins appeared on the glossy, sable surface of the
seed. Ethram-Fal thrust it under the water, pushing it into the hole
and using his hands to bury it. Then he drew back, lifted his dripping
hands from the pool, and moved them in a slow, circular pattern over
the planted seed. He whispered a final time, turning his hands over
abruptly before him. Lurid crimson glyphs blazed brilliantly upon each
palm for an instant and vanished.

The Stygian sorcerer slogged out of the pool with a twisted smile on
his face. His captain stared with intent apprehension at the spot where
Ethram-Fal had planted the seed, as if expecting something horrible
beyond words to burst from the waters at any moment.

"Come then, Ath, let us be gone," said Ethram-Fal jovially. He pulled
himself atop his squatting camel and clung to its saddle as it rose to
its feet. Ath tore his eyes from the pool and mounted his own beast
hurriedly, as his master looked on in apparent amusement.

The camels snorted in distaste as they were forced to file out of the
only patch of greenery on the parched expanse of desert. They moved
steadily, if reluctantly, up the sifting side of the huge dune that
flanked the oasis. A hot wind tore sand from the dune's crest and
hurled it into the faces of the two men leading the column of camels.
Ethram-Fal noticed that the sun had already dried his caftan, which had
been dripping wet only a moment past. Once over the dune, Ath drew up
short, cursing.

"Set's scales! I left my best dagger stuck in the sand back there." The
soldier pulled on the reins of his mount and prepared to turn about to
retrieve his weapon.

"No," said Ethram-Fal firmly. "You must do without it. The next visitor
to that oasis is in for a terrible surprise."


Chapter Twenty
--------------

Pesouris the ferryman lounged in a well-padded chair set out upon his
dock. At the end of a long day's toil he often found it pleasant to
relax here for a time before repairing to his house and the diligent
attentions of his concubines. At times like this, when the sun had just
dipped below the earth's rim and the breeze came cool and bracing down
the twilit Styx, he felt it only proper that he should reflect upon his
good fortune and perhaps offer up a discreet prayer of thanks to Father
Set. It was the servants of the serpent god, after all, who had made
his present prosperity possible. If he had not been granted a
ferryman's seal by the Stygian authorities of Bel-Phar, he would still
be competing for his livelihood with all manner of motley would-be
ferrymen. Now that he alone was authorized to transport travelers
across the Styx to Bel-Phar, his wealth and status had exceeded his
fondest wishes. A fortnight ago he would have been unable even to rent
this dock, and today it belonged to him. Paying even a single full-time
concubine would have been beyond his meager means.

Pesouris heaved a deep sigh of satisfaction, his burgeoning paunch
straining at his silken girdle. He locked stubby fingers together
behind his thick neck and leaned back in the chair. His dark eyes
narrowed thoughtfully. He wondered which of the two he should select
tonight. An idea burst upon him, causing his thickly thatched eyebrows
to raise abruptly. Couldn't they be made to compete for his affections?
Of course they could. Why hadn't he thought of this before?

The sudden stream of fantasies unleashed by this new inspiration was
cut short by the nearly inaudible scuff of a boot sole on the dock
behind him. The interruption displeased Pesouris, who twisted about in
his padded chair to face the intruder.

Night and the shadows of two tall palms conspired to make the base of
the dock a thick mass of impenetrable shadow. There was someone there,
though; Pesouris could just make him out.

"Ahptut? Is that you?" The ferryman called the name of his hired
servant and was dismayed at the weak sound of his voice. Bristling a
little, he sat up and stared into the darkness.

"You! Who's there!"

The figure of a tall man was barely visible, standing motionless on the
dock. A chill fluid seemed to course down the ferryman's back. He
fumbled at his waist for the curved dirk on his belt, his mind awhirl
with panicked surmise. Was it that drunken fool Temoten come to claim
vengeance? Or a thief out to rob him of his hard-won riches?

Pesouris was still groping for his dagger when the man on the dock took
two steps forward, emerging from the shadow of the palms into the pale
starlight. He was a big man, standing tall and stiffly straight in a
loose caftan that rippled gently in the night breeze. He said nothing,
but his presence less than ten feet from the ferryman was mutely
threatening. Pesouris finally got his hand on his hilt but did not draw
the weapon. He looked into the blackness within the caftan's hood.

"What do you want?" he asked through lips gone suddenly dry. The man on
the dock thrust out a hand and pointed at the smaller of Pesouris's two
ferries, moored along the dock. Then he pointed out across the
star-flecked Styx. The hand disappeared into a pocket of the caftan and
came out clutching a fistful of coins. The man tossed them onto the
dock at the ferryman's feet. There were several coins, and they clashed
musically together as they hit the weathered wood of the dock. The
weight of their impact and their vague yellow gleam were not lost on
Pesouris. Gold.

"Your pardon, my lord, but I cannot ferry you across at this hour. The
Stygians, in their wisdom, forbid it. If you come back at daybreak…"

An uncomfortable moment of silence lengthened until the ferryman felt
his pulse quicken with new apprehension. The man on the dock moved,
thrusting his hand once again into his pocket and drawing forth another
handful of coins. The pile of gold on the dock grew twice as large.

Pesouris looked down upon the spilled coins in sorrow. "I'm truly
sorry, master, but it is forbidden for me to take travelers across the
river after sundown. Your offer is generous, but if the Stygians caught
us they would slay us both." The ferryman spread his hands in a gesture
of helplessness. He did not have to feign regret. That was a lot of
gold.

The man on the dock stood still for a long moment, his flowing white
garb giving him the appearance of a silently risen ghost. Then he
lunged forward and seized Pesouris by the throat and belt.

The ferryman choked as he was drawn effortlessly up out of the chair.
The hand at his throat seemed sculpted from cold granite. The portly
ferryman was tossed bodily into the smaller of his ferries. There was a
sharp stab of pain as his right knee cracked against the gunwale. If he
had not been so full of fear, the pain might well have incapacitated
him. As it was, he had the strength to roll over, grasp the slender
mast, and pull himself to his feet in the little craft.

"Please," he choked, "I'll take you. Don't…"

The silent man was lowering himself stiffly into the boat. He sat in
the prow and regarded Pesouris impassively. Only the vaguest outline of
his features was visible in the darkness. There came the dry whisper of
steel on leather as the man drew a heavy-bladed sword and laid it
across his knees.

The ferryman busied himself poling first off the dock and then along
the muddy bottom of the Styx. The ferry was little more than an
outsized rowboat fitted with a miniature sail. Pesouris had Ahptut use
it to carry the smaller, less wealthy groups of travelers. Now he
scrambled to set the little sail as the craft surged out onto the black
breast of the Styx.

Once the ferry was well under way, there was nothing Pesouris could do
except squint into the darkness for the lights of Bel-Phar and regard
his unlikely passenger. The air was chill upon the nighted river and a
cooling draught blew back along the length of the boat. It bore a
strange scent to the ferryman's nostrils.

Once, when he was very young, Pesouris had traveled by caravan with his
father to Khemi at the mouth of the Styx. One morning he had awakened
early and set out into the dunes to relieve himself. In a sandy hollow
he had found the corpse of a camel. The beast had been mummified by the
relentless arid heat of the desert and resembled a sagging leather
fascimile of itself. The warm morning breeze had carried the same scent
that he smelled now on the cool evening breath of the Styx.

Of a sudden Pesouris longed to look at anything other than his
passenger. Turning his head to one side, he noticed a brief flash of
froth out on the dark water. Amazed, the ferryman realized that he had
spotted a crocodile. There were more flashes, more signs of movement
all around the little boat. Here a black, armored muzzle broke the
surface, and there a ridged, lashing tail struck foam from a glossy
swell. The hair stood up on the ferryman's arms. Crocodiles did not
venture so far from shore. And they did not follow ferryboats. The
breeze blew stronger, bearing that scent back to Pesouris once again,
and suddenly he understood. Crocodiles are eaters of carrion. They
smelled it, too.

By the time that the sparse lights of Bel-Phar's waterfront came into
view, Pesouris had completed a long and most sincere prayer to Mitra.
He had briefly considered praying to Set before deciding upon the more
merciful god of the Hyborians. If he survived this evening, he promised
both a vastly generous donation to a temple of Mitra and a serious
change of lifestyle. Looking to either side of the ferry, he felt
certain that his prayers were falling on deaf ears. The man sitting in
the prow of his boat had not changed position and if he noticed the
swarm of crocodiles following them, he gave no sign.

"Master," said Pesouris, hating the shrill sound of his voice, "we are
almost across." No response. He mustered his flagging courage. "Master,
the water is full of crocodiles."

The man in the prow remained silent.

Pesouris concentrated on bringing his ferry in to a darkened, deserted
dock, pointedly ignoring both his somber companion and their reptilian
escort. When the little boat grated against the stained stone blocks of
the dock, the ferryman felt a surge of relief, immediately followed by
a rush of stark terror.

The man in the prow stood up, naked sword in his hand. Pesouris fell to
his knees in the bottom of the boat, clenching his eyes shut against
the blow he knew would come.

"Please, master," he pleaded. "I'll tell no one of your passage. Spare
your poor servant."

A weight lifted from the prow of the ferry. Pesouris opened his eyes to
see his passenger standing on the steps carved into the stone of the
dock. The waterfront seemed unnaturally silent. On the neighboring pier
a lone torch flickered yellowly from a sconce set in stone. The man
sheathed his sword with a swift movement and tugged back the hood of
his caftan, paying no heed to Pesouris whatsoever. He turned and
started up the steps.

"Master," called the ferryman. The tall man stopped, turned, and looked
down at Pesouris, who cringed but spoke.

"Master, who are you? What do you seek here?"

The flesh of the man's face seemed impossibly drawn and sunken in the
faint torchlight. The mouth opened and closed stiffly, as though its
owner had forgotten how to speak. A scar shone pale through the
lusterless growth of beard.

"Death," said Gulbanda, and moved away up the stairs into the night.


Chapter Twenty-One
------------------

T'Cura of Darfar scrambled down from the jagged rock spur that he had
been using as a lookout for most of the morning. Below him, twelve men
lolled quietly beside their hobbled horses, clustered in what shade
they could find atop the boulder-strewn ridge. Neb-Khot, the small
band's leader, squinted in the merciless noonday glare, watching T'Cura
descend and wondering what he had seen. He took a swig of warm,
brackish Water from a goatskin and motioned for T'Cura to hurry.

Neb-Khot was a thin, wiry man. His dusky Stygian complexion was
darkened even further by ceaseless exposure to the desert sun. His
burnoose was gray with dust, secured at the waist with a leather girdle
that held a scimitar and three cruelly hooked daggers. His sharp brown
eyes peered questioningly at T'Cura, who scuffed over the rocky soil
toward him. The Darfari approached his chieftain, touched his scarred
forehead in a salute, and spoke.

"Hai, Neb-Khot, riders were approaching, but now they have turned off
the Caravan Road and ride into the waste."

Neb-Khot stared at his man incredulously.

"Telmesh, awaken and tell me if what T'Cura says is truth."

The one addressed as Telmesh arose from the shadow of a mottled boulder
and jogged toward the rock spur at the ridge's edge.

"I speak the truth." T'Cura's lips drew back from filed teeth.

"Are they mad?" The Stygian met T'Cura's bloodshot gaze. The Darfari
was a fine tracker and an excellent man in a fight, but he had to be
kept in line. Their eyes locked for a moment; then T'Cura looked away,
bringing his dark hand up to scratch at his crudely shaven head.

"They ride into the open desert," persisted the Darfari, "and there are
but four of them. Two are women."

"Even so?" Neb-Khot clapped a hand onto the man's shoulder to show him
that he was still respected. "This grows more interesting by the
moment."

The other brigands were stirring, some rising to wander over to hear of
what T'Cura had seen. Telmesh dropped from the rock spur and came
breathlessly up to Neb-Khot. He was a Shemite outlaw with few friends
in the band. Neb-Khot often used him for simple tasks so that he felt
appreciated. Now he held up his hand to shield his black eyes from the
sun, revealing the faded tattoo of a golden peacock upon his forearm.

"It is as T'Cura says," declared Telmesh. "I say that we leave them be.
Only sorcerers would willingly leave the Caravan Road and ride into the
desert."

"Two are women," said T'Cura again, and a murmur of approval swept the
lawless band of men gathered atop the rocky ridge.

"I did not notice," said Telmesh, but his words were lost in the
growing tumult of eager voices. Neb-Khot lifted his hands for silence.

"My brothers, what manner of travelers leave the Caravan Road to wander
in the wastelands? Are they necromancers seeking wisdom amongst the
sand and scrub? Or are they witless fools who know nothing of the
desert and have made the last mistake of their useless lives?"

Bloodthirsty cries rose from the men, some of whom drew their swords
and shook them at the hot, blue sky. Telmesh the Shemite looked
dismayed, but held his tongue.

"And eagle-eyed T'Cura says that two of the four are women!" continued
Neb-Khot, his voice rising. "So I say, if the women are ugly, perhaps
they are ladies worth ransoming. And if they are comely, then we have
been lonely men for far too long!"

A savage cheer rang in the bright air and the group turned as one to
their horses. Neb-Khot hoisted himself into his saddle and nudged his
mount to Telmesh's side. An extended hand helped the Shemite mount his
roan.

"Courage," smiled the Stygian. "If they are beauties, I shall see that
you get first pick." Telmesh nodded, loyalty burgeoning in his breast.

Neb-Khot reined his horse around, watching his men move into action and
reflecting upon how his luck had never deserted him. It had made him
the undisputed leader of this strong band of bandits, always kept him a
step ahead of the Stygian militia, and seen to it that it was never too
long between hapless travelers on the Caravan Road. He spurred forward.

Hooves thundered in the dust as twelve men swept down from the high
ridge to rob and rape and slay.


Chapter Twenty-Two
------------------

After the gear in the saddlebags of their camels was sorted through and
divided, each member of the party acquired a measure of protection
against the desert heat. Zelandra and Neesa immediately made use of a
pair of cotton cowls, pulling them over their traveling clothes and
tugging up the loose hoods against the sun. Predictably, Conan and
Heng-Shih had more difficulty. The Khitan found nothing that he could
wear as it was meant to be worn, finally wrapping a gray silk tunic
around his shaven skull in a crude turban. For an outer garment he
produced from his own provisions a golden kimono embroidered with
writhing dragons of scarlet silk. Though adequately protected from the
harsh sun, he cut an odd figure. The Cimmerian was luckier, finding a
cotton burnoose large enough to be serviceable if not entirely
comfortable. In motley array, the party moved through an empty
landscape, the dry and barren miles passing slowly beneath their
camels' feet.

Zelandra .seemed unwell. Again and again she looked back over her
shoulder toward the road they had left behind, her face pale within the
folds of her hood. When she spoke to Conan, her voice had developed an
unsettling tremor.

"Are you certain that we should have left the Caravan Road? Shall we
not become lost in this godforsaken waste?"

Conan shrugged his broad shoulders beneath the undersized Stygian
burnoose. "The Dragon's Spine is not so easily found. It is near
Pteion, remember, and no human road leads to that cursed ruin."

Lady Zelandra's left hand fluttered to her brow and she swayed slightly
in the saddle. "And how am I to trust you, barbarian? How is it that I
trust you to lead me through this hot and empty hell?"

The Cimmerian turned to fasten his probing gaze on her face. Zelandra's
eyes rolled as though she were in the grip of a tropical fever and her
jaw worked spasmodically. He saw that she gripped the box at her girdle
with such fierce intensity that the tendons stood out rigidly across
the back of her hand. Then Heng Shih was riding at their side. The
Khitan leaned from his mount and caught the reins of Zelandra's camel.
The party drew up short in the midst of the rocky plain. The sun was so
bright that its rays seemed to thicken the air, suffocating the
travelers with its heat.

"Heng Shih," sobbed Zelandra, teetering in her seat. "Heng Shih, where
are you?" The Khitan moved his mount in close beside the sorceress and
laid a thick arm across her shaking shoulders. The woman half fell
against his body, leaning against him while a series of visible
shudders coursed through her slender frame. Conan drew back, casting a
glance at Neesa.

"Crom," he murmured, "is she stricken?"

Neesa shook her dark head. "Her body cries for the lotus."

The barbarian cursed under his breath, feeling a creeping chill despite
the cruel sun. He turned away from the little group, scanning the land
around them. The ruddy, irregular plain was broken only by a rough
ridge to their rear and by a widely separated group of eroded volcanic
buttes before them. The wind rose from a dull whisper to a hot howl,
drowning Zelandra's sobs. Conan looked back to the ridge behind them,
where it rose sharply against the featureless blue of the desert sky.
His brow furrowed.

Heng Shih's hands pulled the silver box from its leather bindings and
lifted the lid with gentle care. Within the box's mirrored silver rim
lay velvety green shadow. Zelandra tossed her head back against the
Khitan's breast, tears bright on her pallid cheeks.

"No, Heng Shih," she said weakly. "No, my love."

The Khitan put a blunt forefinger in his mouth, then thrust it into the
open box. It came back out encrusted with emerald dust. He put it to
Zelandra's lips.

"Riders!" The barbarian's voice rang with deadly urgency. "Bandits or
worse. Follow me!"

Heng Shih carefully re-wrapped the silver box and fastened it securely
to Zelandra's belt before looking up. Neesa wheeled about, standing in
her stirrups to look behind them. The Lady Zelandra was shaking her
head as though shrugging off a spell of dizziness. She wiped away the
moisture on her cheeks, blinking quickly and suddenly seeming to focus
once more on those around her. When she looked up, her gray eyes were
clear.

"Derketo's loins," she cursed hoarsely, "listen to the barbarian."

"Crom and Mitra! Follow me or we're all food for the jackals!" Without
looking to see if they heeded his words, Conan urged his camel to a
loping gallop. He started off at an angle to their original path,
heading toward the stony prominence of the nearest butte. The rest of
the party followed.

Neesa stared back at the ridge a moment longer. A thin thread of rising
dust was just visible, tracing a line down the ridge's rugged slope.
How the barbarian had noticed this faint sign was beyond her.
Marveling, she lashed her camel and started off after her companions.

The party, moving at top speed, drew nearer to the closest of the
buttes, and Zelandra found herself questioning the wisdom of the
Cimmerian's path. The butte they approached was the core of an
eons-dead volcano, a huge, crumbling shaft of stone that rose almost
vertically from the desert floor. Its base was cluttered with shattered
boulders torn from the main body of the escarpment by the slow claws of
erosion. There seemed to be little advantage in taking refuge among the
jagged heaps of broken rock. Would they leave their camels and try to
lose their pursuers by hiding in the jumble of boulders? Better to try
to fight them off. Zelandra's hand sought and gripped the box that
bounced at her hip. She breathed deeply of the wind that lashed her
flowing cowl and cleared her mind in preparation for strong and deadly
sorcery.

But Conan did not lead the party directly into the butte's base. He
kept his camel galloping around the tower of stone, moving west and
north until a new feature of the rock unveiled itself. This side of the
butte was cleft by a narrow gorge. It was as though an angry god had
split the stone with a titanic ax, opening a steep passage up into the
body of the butte. Conan rode into the gorge's mouth, dismounting
almost immediately as the ground became covered with loose stone. The
rest of the party came up behind him and followed suit.

"We can take the high ground here. Lead your mounts; the footing is
uncertain." The barbarian's words echoed in the stony passage.

. They hastily moved up the gorge, over gravel and broken, treacherous
plates of reddish rock, between looming walls of striated stone. The
sun shone directly down into the steep cleft in the butte, filling it
with oppressive heat and blinding light. Halfway up the little canyon
their passage was almost blocked by a huge boulder.

"Get the camels up behind the rock," directed Conan. "We can hold this
position until they're willing to bargain."

As Heng Shih, Zelandra, and Neesa led their mounts to shelter behind
the boulder, the hammer of hooves echoed up from the gorge's mouth. The
brigands had overtaken them and now moved to seal off the canyon.

Neb-Khot was displeased with the current course of events. His band's
fresh horses had caught up with their prey's weary camels easily
enough, but the bandit chieftain had not anticipated that they would
find such a dangerous place to go to ground. The brigands could only
get at the travelers by charging up the open slope. Even though there
were only, two warriors in the defending party, he might well lose
several men before taking them down. A bit of bargaining might lower
their guard, perhaps even intimidate them into throwing down their arms
and surrendering. He rubbed his stubbled chin uncertainly. The little
party had proved surprisingly skillful in protecting themselves thus
far. The Stygian sighed, wondering what other surprises they might have
for him. This was not as easy as he had anticipated, but it did not
mean that his luck had deserted him.

The brigands dismounted, forming a loose phalanx facing up the passage.
Neb-Khot motioned for the two archers to take up flanking positions on
each wall of the gorge and called Telmesh to him. The Shemite, black
eyes bright with excitement, clutched his naked scimitar and looked to
his leader in anticipation.

"Telmesh, how would you like to bargain with these fools?"

"I?" The bandit seemed stunned. "By the Steel Wings, I've never done
such a thing."

"Bah," said Neb-Khot with friendly derision. "You underestimate
yourself. Have a word with the dogs. Show them that we can be
reasonable men while I ready the others to charge." He turned away
before the Shemite could respond.

Up the gorge, Conan. appeared atop the boulder sheltering the camels
while Heng Shih stepped out beside it. The Khitan moved a few steps
down the slope, finding a niche in the rock wall that would afford
cover from arrows. Conan stood in full view, black mane whipping in the
hot wind that blew along the canyon.

Forty paces away, Telmesh leapt up on a block of stone and hailed him.

"Ho, travelers! Throw down your weapons, give us your goods, and we
shall spare you!" The Shemite's voice rang strongly in the corridor of
stone, and he straightened with pride at the sound of it. Conan's
response was a harsh bark of laughter.

"We have no riches, dogs. Our mistress seeks medicinal herbs in the
desert. We have nothing for you but steel. Come forward if you wish a
taste of it."

At this the archers to either side of the gorge surreptitiously set
shafts to string and looked to Neb-Khot for the order to loose them.
The Stygian chieftain moved among the eight men on the gorge's floor,
speaking to them in low tones.

Neesa struggled up onto the boulder's top beside the barbarian. As she
stood, a gust of wind lifted her cowl, exposing her slim legs to the
crowd below. A raucous cry of approval swept the bandits.

Telmesh laughed coarsely. "By Ashtoreth, give us a taste of her and you
can all go free!"

As Conan turned to admonish Neesa to take cover, the woman's hand
darted to her nape in a motion that the barbarian knew all too well.
Her arm snapped forward, sending a throwing dagger streaking down the
gorge like a diving hawk. The blade drove into Telmesh's throat just
above the collar of his dusty burnoose.

"Taste that!" shouted Neesa as Neb-Khot gave his archers the order to
release. Conan swept out an arm, shoving Neesa from the top of the
boulder and sending her skidding, cursing, down the far side. An arrow
shot through the space where she'd stood, whistling up the gorge. The
Cimmerian's sword licked out, clipping a second arrow aside in
mid-flight. The eight men on the canyon's floor howled out a wild,
discordant war cry and drove forward with blades bared.

Telmesh stood still on his rock, eyes wide with disbelief.

His hands groped for the dagger's hilt and found it just as his legs
gave way beneath him.

Neb-Khot watched the Shemite fall and felt his luck running strong
within him. The whim that had led him to avoid bargaining with this
party had likely saved his life. Surely the gods protected him this
day.

Behind the boulder, the Lady Zelandra heard the cries of the attacking
bandits as an indistinct and distant murmur. She knelt in the gravel,
her entire being focused upon the open box of Emerald Lotus perched in
her lap. Inside the mirror-lined casket was a small seashell. She used
it to spoon a bit of the deep-green powder into her mouth, pouring it
under her tongue. Revulsion at the sharp, bitter taste was swiftly
eclipsed by the shudder of raw power through her body. She snapped the
box closed, lashed it to her belt, and stood up.

The first bandit up the slope closed on Heng Shih, who lunged from his
niche in the rock wall to meet him. The flare-bladed scimitar flashed
in the desert sun, driving down to rebound from the bandit's hasty"
block with a resounding metallic clang. T'Cura reeled back from the
strength of the blow, his dark face twisting with determination, He
moved back in, but this time Heng Shih's swing had all the power of the
Khitan's body behind it. Again, T'Cura succeeded in blocking the
stroke, but the sheer impact lifted him from his feet and hurled him
backward down the gorge. The Darfari crashed to the ground, tumbling
down the rocky incline in a series of painful somersaults. Heng Shih
ducked back into his sheltering niche as an arrow splintered against
the canyon wall beside him.

Another arrow shot past Conan's head as he dropped to a crouch, waiting
for the oncoming bandits to climb the boulder to reach him. A moment
later a bearded brigand pulled himself up to where the rock adjoined
the wall of the gorge. Conan drove forward and met an arrow fired by a
canny archer below. The point impacted the barbarian's left shoulder,
failing to pierce his mail but delivering a powerful buffet that
staggered him and sent pain flaring hotly down his arm. The climbing
bandit came sword-first onto the boulder's top, where Conan, struck off
balance by the arrow, lashed out at him with a wordless cry of rage.
The Cimmerian's blade tore across the breast of his foe, splitting his
ribs and slamming him back over the boulder's lip. The brigand fell
from sight with a hoarse cry as Conan's uncontrolled swing drove his
sword against the gorge wall, where it broke with a brittle crack.
Cursing sulphurously, he tore his dagger from his belt, crouching low
again as yet another arrow whispered past.

In the cover of his niche, Heng Shih gripped his hilt with both hands
and prepared to go back out onto the slope to deal with the next set of
attackers to struggle up the slope. His slanted eyes flew wide as the
Lady Zelandra came from behind the sheltering boulder and strode boldly
out in front of it. He hurtled from the niche, golden kimono billowing
out behind him, to protect his mistress. He cut down a howling brigand
with a single brutal stroke, sending the man flying back among his
comrades and momentarily arresting their progress. Then the Khitan
looked to Zelandra and froze in place.

The Lady Zelandra's hair blew back from her straining face. Her eyes
stretched wide, lit up from within by a weird crimson light. A tortured
stream of strange words poured from her lips as she flung her arms out
as though to embrace the oncoming bandits.

Every man in the gorge stopped moving. They stared in horror at the
sorceress as a fiery illumination gathered and seethed about her
outstretched hands. Halfway down the slope, T'Cura turned to run.

"Heeyah Vramgoth Dew!" screamed Zelandra, her voice rising to a wail of
supernatural intensity. "Aie Vramgoth Cthugua!"

A towering sheet of red-orange flame rose Up before her, filling the
gorge from wall to wall, obscuring Zelandra and her comrades from the
bandits. For an instant it stood still, raging like the blaze at the
heart of a volcano; then it rolled down the canyon toward Neb-Khot's
terror-stricken band. Men turned to flee and were caught in the roaring
inferno like insects in a brush fire. Screams of fearful agony were
half heard above the flame-wall's thunder.

Neb-Khot was astride his horse the moment that Zelandra began her
chant. He tried to spur away, but his horse shied, its hooves slipping
on the loose stone of the gorge's floor. The beast fell, sending the
Stygian chieftain flying from its back to slide gracelessly down the
slope. He dragged himself to his feet, twisting an ankle in the gravel,
and ran as if hell were at his heels.

Conan stood on the boulder's crest, watching the flame-wall move away.
It rolled swiftly toward the mouth of the gorge, expanding and
contracting to fill the defile. When it reached the end of the little
canyon, it faded swiftly from view. The fearsome, ear-filling roar
dwindled away to silence. The barbarian saw that three bandits had
escaped the gorge and now rode intently away from the butte. Two of the
men shared a single mount. None turned to look behind them.

Six brigands lay dead on the floor of the canyon. Their bodies were
twisted and contorted as though they had died in terrible pain. There
was not a mark upon any of them.

Conan clenched his jaw, feeling the barbarian's instinctive fear of the
supernatural welling up in him even as his battle-hardened
sensibilities rebelled at the cruel power of Zelandra's sorcery. He
glanced down to where the sorceress had stood at the base of the
boulder and saw that she now sat cross-legged in the dust, her head in
her hands. As he looked on, Heng Shih approached Zelandra and knelt at
her side, bending his head to hers.

The Cimmerian lowered himself to the boulder's edge and dropped over
it, landing lightly beside the sprawled corpse of the brigand he had
broken his sword in slaying. The man still clutched a scimitar. Conan
took the weapon from his stiffening fingers and the leather scabbard
from his bloody belt. The scimitar was of mediocre workmanship, yet its
design was agreeable enough. The blade was curved, but not so much as
to make it impractical for thrusting. It was not a broadsword, but it
would have to serve.

When he turned, Zelandra was standing again, embraced by Neesa. Heng
Shih approached him with a wide grin, his silken kimono bright and
incongruously festive in the sun. The Khitan's hands went through a
quick sequence of motions, ending by seizing Conan by the upper arms
and giving him a vigorous shake. The Cimmerian pulled free of the
smiling Knit an.

"He gives you thanks for saving our lives," said Neesa. The Cimmerian
grunted in embarrassment, looking off down the gorge. Heng Shih slapped
him on the shoulder and turned back to Zelandra, who stood leaning
weakly against the boulder. Her posture spoke of enormous weariness.
The Khitan took her hand, and together they walked around the boulder
to where the camels waited.

Neesa came to the barbarian where he stood affixing the looted sword
and scabbard to his belt.

"I shouldn't have killed that man, should I?" she said. Her dark eyes
sought his. "If you had time to bargain, perhaps—"

"Hell," grinned Conan, suddenly glad to be alive. "They had no
intention of letting us go. You heard those dogs howl when they caught
a glimpse of you. You don't think that I'd have traded you for safe
passage, do you?"

"No," she said, and lifted her lips to his.


Chapter Twenty-Three
--------------------

The riders allowed their horses, weary and lathered with foam, to stop
and rest at the Caravan Road. Neb-Khot lowered himself awkwardly from
the mount he shared with T'Cura, lit upon his twisted ankle and swore
savagely.

"Yog and Erlik! That was a close thing, brothers."

T'Cura eased off his horse and stood holding the reins while the third
survivor remained mounted. The third was one of the archers, his bow
now in place over his right shoulder. He was a young Shemite, his shock
of black hair in sharp contrast to the pale flesh of his face.

"Telmesh was right," he panted, wiping his brow with a dirty sleeve.
"They weren't human. Did you see the black-haired one knock my shaft
from the air?"

"Be still, Nath," groaned Neb-Khot. He gave in to the pain in his ankle
and sat down heavily on the hot, hard-packed earth of the Caravan Road.

The sun, just past its median, blazed down. It was still early
afternoon. The Stygian chieftain marveled that the ill-fated pursuit of
the travelers and the destruction of his band had taken so little time.

"I need a horse," he declared to no one in particular.

T'Cura was drinking noisily from a waterskin, still gripping the reins
of his mount with one hand. He lowered the skin and studied his
chieftain in a bemused fashion. The archer, Nath, shifted nervously in
his saddle, looking back out across the shimmering expanse of the
desert.

"The horses scattered, Neb-Khot," said Nath. "We'll never find one for
you now."

"It's a long way to Sibu's oasis. And farther still to Bel-Phar,"
growled T'Cura.

"Ishtar." Neb-Khot rubbed his wounded ankle gingerly. "Give some of
that water to your horse, T'Cura. The beast will need it to carry us
both back to Sibu's."

The Darfari said nothing. He put the waterskin to his lips and took a
long, deliberate pull. Lowering it, he looked upon Neb-Khot and bared
his filed teeth in a cold and mirthless smile. Then he shoved the
waterskin into a saddlebag with a single contemptuous motion.

Nath's gaze moved from T'Cura to his chieftain and back again, growing
ever more apprehensive. Neb-Khot noticed none of this. His fingers
probed his wounded ankle while his mind dwelt on this sudden reversal
of fortune. He looked up to see that the Darfari had remounted his
horse and was now stroking the polished blade of his unsheathed
scimitar. For the first time it occurred to Neb-Khot that his luck
might have deserted him completely.

"Look!" cried Nath, his voice breaking. "A rider!"

Neb-Khot twisted around, coming to his knees on the hard road. It was
true. A single horseman had come into view on the road along the far
flank of the ridge. His form rippled liquidly in the haze of heat, a
small black mark on the ruddy, sun-blasted landscape; but it was clear
that he rode the Caravan Road alone.

"Hah," grinned Neb-Khot, getting to his feet. "The gods haven't
forgotten me after all. T'Cura, bring me that fool's horse and I'll
give you fifty pieces of gold."

The Darfari eyed his leader with a look of amused disbelief writ upon
his dark features. Then he shook his head and spat in the dust.

"Julian must love you, Neb-Khot," he said, and spurred his horse
forward, toward the approaching horseman.

The Stygian chieftain laid a hand on the lathered neck of Nath's mount
as they watched T'Cura rapidly close on the lone rider.

"Should I—" began the archer.

"No," said Neb-Khot firmly. "Stay here with me and make ready an
arrow." Nath did as he was told, setting a shaft to string.

As they watched, T'Cura confronted the horseman, flourishing his sword
threateningly in the brilliant sunlight. The traveler's mount seemed
very weary, its head hanging, but it kept plodding toward them even as
T'Cura accosted its rider. The Darfari's voice rang commandingly, the
words indistinct and distant but unmistakable in intent. The horseman,
wrapped in a voluminous caftan, did nothing, and his mount continued
unperturbed in its slow, steady gait.

Neb-Khot licked dry lips. Was the man mad?

With a furious cry, T'Cura thrust his blade at the traveler's breast.
What happened next occurred with such speed that neither Nath nor
Neb-Khot could immediately grasp it. The rider's left hand lashed out,
literally slapping aside T'Cura's killing thrust, and then shot out to
seize the Darfari by the throat. T'Cura's blade fell to the road and
his horse shied away, pulling from beneath its rider and leaving him
dangling at the end of an arm as rigid as the bar of a gallows.

"Mitra save us," gasped Nath.

Impossibly, the rider held T'Cura out at arm's length, kicking, and
then gave him a powerful shake. The Darfari's thrashing limbs went
abruptly lax, and he was released. He fell in a limp heap on the road
as the horseman continued toward Neb-Khot and Nath at the same
deliberate pace.

"Oh, Mitra! Mitra!" cried Nath hysterically.

"Be still!" shouted Neb-Khot, slapping the mounted man's leg. "Shoot
the dog! Loose, damn it!"

The archer shook with fear, but drew and released with ease born of
years' practice. The arrow flew true, slapping into the center of the
rider's breast. The man lurched in his saddle with the impact, but
stayed mounted. His horse maintained its leisurely gait.

"Excellent," said Neb-Khot. "Now again!"

Nath mechanically drew and loosed another arrow, which found its mark
beside the first. The rider was jolted once again, but remained in the
saddle as the horse came to within a dozen paces and slowed to a halt.

"Gods," breathed Neb-Khot, "what manner of man have we slain?"

Putting his bow back over a shoulder, Nath drew his scimitar and
spurred forward, cautiously approaching the horseman.

Seen up close, the horse was in terrible condition. White foam dripped
from slack jaws while its sides heaved in the last extremity of
exhaustion. Spurs had torn bloody marks in its flanks and its legs
quivered unsteadily beneath the weight of its rider. The man's
appearance was obscured by his dust-caked caftan, which was nailed to
his broad chest by Nath's arrows. He sat his mount with the breathless
silence of the dead.

Nath's horse snorted suddenly, but the Shemite jerked at the reins,
pulling it up beside the lifeless rider. The archer poked at the
horseman with the point of his scimitar, thinking to shove him from the
saddle.

The dead man's hand knocked aside Nath's blade and swung back around in
an arc of incredible speed. A fist like the head of a mace cracked into
the side of Nath's skull, bowling him off of his horse and sending him
sprawling unconscious in the dust.

The horseman swung a leg over his saddle and dismounted. Neb-Khot drew
his sword without thinking. Then he was struck motionless, his limbs
seeming to lock up in helpless horror. The rider had caught the reins
of Nath's horse with one hand and was drawing one of the arrows out of
his chest with the other. The shaft came out slowly and with a thick,
grating rasp, as though it were being pulled from a wooden beam
afflicted with dry rot. Bloodlessly, the arrow was removed and
discarded. When the rider grasped at the second arrow, Neb-Khot's
reason broke.

"Die, demon!" The Stygian chieftain stumbled forward, bringing his
sword down in an overhand cut that should have cleft the crown of the
rider's head. But his twisted ankle gave way beneath his weight even as
the horseman sidestepped the attack. Neb-Khot fell awkwardly on the
road, gravel scoring his palms as he caught himself.

There was no time to recover, to strike upward at his nemesis, or even
to roll away. A knee came down solidly in the middle of Neb-Khot's
back. A cold hand locked onto each shoulder, iron fingers sinking into
his flesh. Struggling, the Stygian was bent backwards with monstrous,
irresistible strength.

Gulbanda spoke a single word, then snapped Neb-Khot's spine.


Chapter Twenty-Four
-------------------

Zelandra's band of travelers traversed the waste beneath a molten sun.
Conan led them unerringly across the desert's level floor, over red
earth baked by centuries of ceaseless heat until it was the consistency
of brick. As the long miles passed, the stony solidity of the soil gave
way to crumbling gravel, and then to shifting sand.

The party crested a low rise, and drew to a halt at the Cimmerian's
command. Ahead stretched an ocean of rolling dunes, a seemingly endless
expanse of ochre sand that reached for the shimmering horizon, raked by
the sunlight of late morning and dappled by black shadow. A single band
of cloud, burnt transparent by the sun, moved upon the blank blue slate
of the sky. "Here the true desert begins," said the barbarian. "Any
sane caravan would traverse the dune sea only at night, but we are in
haste and have no time for comforts. Drink sparingly. I doubt I'll be
able to find another source of water until we've crossed the dunes and
reached the highlands."

Zelandra bent in her saddle, digging a hand into her baggage. The
sorceress produced a worn tube of pale leather, from which she drew a
roll of yellowed parchment. Thrusting the tube beneath an arm, Zelandra
unrolled the scroll for Conan to see.

"This is an ancient map of this part of Stygia," she explained. "I
found it before we left. It dates back to the days of Old Stygia, and
shows the city of Pteion and its environs. I doubt that the map will be
of much use, but I noticed that it depicted an oasis near the eastern
highlands. Do you think it might still be there, Conan?"

The barbarian squinted at the map, lifting a thick forearm to shade his
eyes. "It may be. I have heard of an old oasis in the dune sea, though
not from anyone who claimed to have seen it with his own eyes. This
part of the world is wisely avoided by most. Only men who wish to
travel in secrecy cross these sands." Conan nudged his camel forward,
and the travelers started down the gentle slope into the dunes.

Neesa pulled her hood over her tousled locks and said, "Do the caravans
fear becoming lost amid the trackless sand? Traveling by night, as you
say, could they not steer by the stars?"

"They fear losing their way, as they fear the heat and the absence of
water, but they also fear the slumbering sorcery of the dead city of
Pteion. These sands are said to be accursed."

"We are not going near Pteion," put in Zelandra. "We shall skirt its
evil rains by many miles. Your barbaric superstitions do you little
credit, Conan. These sands are no more accursed than the grassy hills
of Shem."

The Cimmerian made no reply. His blue eyes smoldered against his
bronzed face as he scanned the horizon uneasily.

As the party rode into the sea of sand, the sun lifted into the sky and
seemed to halt there, suspended in the heavens like a torch in a
sconce. The camels labored over the dunes steadily, if
unenthusiastically, occasionally snorting and moaning their distaste
for the task.

Neesa followed Conan's example and draped herself in her cloak so that
not an inch of skin was exposed to the merciless sun. Closing her eyes
against the glare, she settled back in the swaying saddle and tried to
doze. Between the movement of the camel and the steady creaking of her
gear, she could almost imagine herself back on the deck of Temoten's
ferry. A cry from Zelandra snapped the scribe back into full awareness.

"Look there! Is that not a palm?" The sorceress stood in her stirrups
at the crest of a tall dune. "Conan, is that our oasis?"

The barbarian pulled at his mount's reins, urging the camel up the
dune's face until he was at Zelandra's side. Heng Shih pointed to the
southeast, where a fleck of emerald glimmered in the haze of heat.

"It looks like it," agreed Conan, "though it is» nowhere near where it
is shown on your map."

Zelandra's high brows knitted in impatience. "Well, one could hardly
expect the oasis to be in exactly the same position after the passage
of so many centuries. Let us go fill our waterskins and lounge in the
shade for a time. It will do us all good."

The Cimmerian said nothing, and the travelers turned from their trail.
The distant palms beckoned, wavering like a green flame on the face of
the desert. Conan watched the palms draw nearer, coming into view as
his camel slogged up a dune, then dropping from sight as his mount
descended into the valleys between each hill of sand. Unlike his
civilized companions, the barbarian had never learned to distrust or
disregard his instincts. He was troubled by a vague and creeping
unease.

The terrain altered as the party proceeded. The dunes flattened, and
the sand became a hardened skin that crunched beneath their camels'
feet! Conan stared at the oasis, now close enough for him to discern
lazily swaying palms and the thick cluster of ground vegetation that
marked the location of the waterhole. His nostrils flared.

"Something is amiss," said the barbarian. "The oasis appears green, yet
I smell no water."

"For the love of Ishtar, Conan, would you attempt to contain your
barbarian superstitions?" Zelandra sounded exasperated. "Pteion is many
miles away. This oasis is a blessing that we shall not overlook. We…"

A wave of beat rolled over the travelers. Though the sky was clear, the
sun brightened as if it had emerged from behind a thick wall of clouds.
Ahead, the oasis blurred like a waking dream, its outlines softening in
the harsh glare. The brightness made Conan squint and look down. He saw
that he rode over a hardened surface of solidified sand. The sculpted
dunes had flattened into an uneven plain of fused glass. The ground
resembled the congealed bottom of a glass-blower's forge. Conan jerked
his camel to a halt, looked up, and saw that the oasis had vanished.

Where the palms and brush had been was now a stout, flat-topped cone of
dark stone, standing almost as tall as a man. Its deep gray hue
contrasted sharply with the ochre tones of the desert. The sands around
the cone were frozen in concentric whorls of fused glass. It sat at the
center of a mile-wide spiral of seared sand, like a gray spider in a
web of brittle stone. The earth around it was strewn with dark debris.

A sheet of white fire rippled across the sky, and a cry went up from
the party. The camels bellowed and stumbled as the air itself seemed to
turn to flame. Conan dismounted, seizing the reins of his reeling
mount, and pulled away from the false oasis.

"Come away!" he roared. "Sorcery!"

The heat intensified incredibly, dazzling their eyes and searing their
skin. Heng Shih and Neesa could not control their mounts. The camels
reared and staggered, with their riders pulling at the reins in vain.
Conan saw Zelandra jump awkwardly from her saddle and fall, rolling on
the ground beside her camel's stamping feet.

"Dismount!" bellowed the barbarian. "Leave the camels and flee or we'll
be cooked in our skins!" Neesa and Heng Shih tried to obey as Zelandra
scrambled away from her frenzied mount. Conan moved to help her. Hell
seemed to swallow them all.

Blinding white fire filled the air. Breathing scorched the lips and
tongue. The Cimmerian reached for Zelandra, and saw the sleeve of his
burnoose was smoldering along the full length of his arm. Blisters
sprang up on the back of his exposed hand.

"No!" shouted the sorceress, "Stand away from me!" Conan stepped back,
and Zelandra knelt, lifting her hands to the incandescent sky.

"Dar-Asthkoth la Ithaqua!" her voice wailed. "Brykal Ithaqua Ftagn!"
The sky immediately lost much of its brilliance, and the heat waned.
Conan threw back the hood of his burnoose and looked about wildly. The
acrid stench of burnt cloth filled the hot, still air. Heng Shih had
been hurled from his camel's back. He rose from all fours, and limped
to the side of his mistress. The Khitan drew his scimitar, as if his
blade might protect Zelandra from the unnatural heat. Neesa had stayed
in her saddle and succeeded in calming her mount, while the remainder
of the camels milled about in a state of near panic.

Above the beleaguered party arced a translucent dome of azure light.
The Lady Zelandra raised her palms to it, as though holding it aloft.
Her breath came in short, harsh gasps. Outside the dome's
circumference, the air blazed with rippling fire. The ominous cone of
gray stone wavered in and out of visibility.

"What in the name of the gods is happening?" cried Neesa. She swung her
long legs over her saddle and dismounted, hastening to Conan's side.
The barbarian brushed roughly at the smoking hem of her cloak,
extinguishing the embers glowing there.

"Some sort of sorcerous sentinel," he rumbled, "trying to burn us to
death like insects under a glass. It's a good thing that Zelandra made
quick use of her power, else we might all be piles of smoking bone by
now."

"Is it a weapon of Ethram-Fal's?" asked the scribe.

"No," rasped the kneeling sorceress, "it is very old. And very hungry."
Her hands trembled, and a hot wind blew over the huddled group. "I
can't hold it much longer. Our only hope is that it tires before I do."

"What is it?" Neesa's voice quavered. "What does it want with us?"
Zelandra did not answer. She had clenched her eyes shut and was now a
study in stark concentration. Heng Shih knelt beside her, putting a
reassuring hand on her slim shoulder.

"I can't say what it is," said Conan, "but I can tell you that it means
to slay us. Look." Neesa's gaze followed the barbarian's outstretched
arm and fell upon a gruesome sight. Some twenty feet ahead of the
travelers was a cluster of blackened bone, lying half-sunken into the
fused glass of the desert floor. The jagged ribs of a camel were
plainly visible, but more disturbing still was a scattered collection
of rounded mounds that appeared to be charred human skulls.

"The cursed thing lures travelers by shamming the appearance of an
oasis, and then cooks them to death when they come to drink."

"Why?" burst out Neesa, horror edging her voice with hysteria. "Would
it kill us without reason?"

"It is hungry." Zelandra spoke without opening her eyes. The face of
the sorceress was tense and drawn, as though she suffered a ceaseless
pain she could barely endure. "It wants to burn us to death and feast
upon our released souls. My resistance has made it curious. Look to its
stone well, I think that it has come out to look us over."

Conan looked, and shuddered as though a spider had scurried down his
spine. The space between Zelandra's protective dome and the gray stone
well had cleared somewhat. Something hung above the well's dark
prominence, floating suspended in the air. It was a shimmering tower of
reflective light. It looked as though the desert's common mirage of
distant, glistening water had been twisted into a living coil. The
demon swayed like a stationary cyclone. Conan felt the distinct and
unpleasant sensation of being watched.

The air outside the dome blazed up anew. White fire pressed in upon
Zelandra's magical barrier, drawing a low moan from the sorceress.

"Ah, Ishtar, but it's strong! It is some guardian demon of old, freed
of its well, yet bound to its guard post. I feel its mind. It knows
only hunger and hatred. Ah!" The demon's body swelled suddenly, and the
blue dome above the party dimmed and lowered. A flash of infernal heat
fell upon the travelers, then dissipated as Zelandra marshaled her
strength. "Damn! It means to have us all. Heng Shih, get me some
lotus."

The Khitan obediently unlaced the silver box from Zelandra's girdle.
Tilting the lid open, he found the sea-shell within, and scooped up a
bit of the deep-green powder. He held it to his.mistress's face and,
when she opened her mouth, poured it under her tongue.

"Derketo," Zelandra cursed, shuddering. Then a terrible smile slowly
spread over her features. Her teeth were smeared with green. Above
them, the azure dome rose and darkened.

"How's that, old devil?" Zelandra opened her eyes and gazed upon the
swaying form of her demon nemesis. Her voice was softer, almost
sensual. "You've never met anyone like me before, have you?"

The whirling coil suddenly stretched up to twice its height, shooting
skyward in a flash of blue-white light. Zelandra screamed hoarsely as
her protective barrier was struck with enough force to drive it down
directly over their heads. Neesa cried out and dropped to her knees,
involuntarily lifting her arms to shield her head. The azure dome
flickered, admitting quick pulsations of fiery heat.

"I can't hold it! I can't hold it!"

"Can steel harm it?" Conan had drawn his scimitar, and crouched beside
the kneeling sorceress. His eyes blazed with reckless desperation.

"Strong blows might dissipate it momentarily, but it can't be slain by
physical weapons. Don't be a fool! Ah!" Zelandra grimaced with effort
as the demon hammered at her shield with all of its eldritch might.

Conan lunged to his camel's side, and pulled a water-skin from its
place beside the saddle. He tore it open, then upended the skin over
his head. The Cimmerian poured water over his burnoose, trying to soak
himself completely.

"Have you gone mad?" cried Neesa, grasping at the barbarian's arm.
Conan shook her off.

"It's our only chance. If I can distract it, flee." Without another
word the Cimmerian leapt through Zelandra's barrier into the inferno
beyond. Breaking out of the azure dome, Conan felt a flash of sharp
chill, as if he had splashed through an icy waterfall, then the demon's
heat hit him like a toppling wall. Conan sprinted across the brittle
sands with steam bursting from his sodden burnoose. It was like running
across a lava flow. White light drove tears from the barbarian's eyes,
but he could see the undulating coil of the demon's body ahead. He
steered toward it, bounding over the blackened remains of a luckless
caravan, and sliding to a stop before the gray cone of rock. It was a
well of sorts. The tip of the cone was missing, revealing a shaft
dropping away into darkness. A circular plate of gray stone, the size
of a wagon's wheel, lay against the side of the well. The demon towered
twenty feet above Conan, rising in sparkling, unbroken coils from the
well's open mouth. It swung from side to side, then drew itself down,
as if to examine the diminutive form of the man who dared approach it.

Conan heard the moisture sizzling from his burnoose, and smelled hair
burning. The hilt of his sword seared his palm. He lashed out at the
demon with a savage cry. It was like cleaving cobwebs. His blade passed
through its insubstantial form, but pulled a trail of glittering
shadow-substance after it. The temperature dropped abruptly, though
Conan scarcely noticed. With another war cry, he slashed his scimitar
across the top of the well again, and yet again. The demon fell in upon
itself, telescoping, until it stood only half a man taller than the
barbarian. It bent over him, as if in benediction, and Oman's burnoose
burst into flames.

The Cimmerian dropped and rolled on the hard ground, trying to smother
the fire. Scorching pain bloomed along his shoulders and arms, then
ceased abruptly. The flames died. Rolling onto his back, Conan saw the
azure dome suspended above him. He jumped to his feet, heard the cries
of his comrades, and realized that Zelandra was protecting him at their
expense. The barbarian's sword" whipped across the mouth of the well
again and again, shredding the demon-thing's substance, drawing its
attention back to himself. It dropped lower in the well. Sorcerous heat
pressed upon the azure barrier, but could not penetrate. The twisted
coil of rippling light shuddered, then dropped from view into the well.

The air was suddenly much cooler, and the sun less bright. The normal,
fierce heat of the desert seemed pleasantly temperate after the demon's
onslaught. Conan leaned against the faceted stone wall and fought for
breath, peering into the well's blackness. A surge of heat billowed up
from within and dried his eyeballs.

"Seal it!" Zelandra's voice carried across the blasted sand. "It will
gather its strength and come back more powerful than before!"

Conan staggered back from the well. His eyes were drawn to the heavy
plate of gray stone that leaned against the well's side. He bent and
gripped it The barbarian's arms stretched to their limit, his hands
fastening onto the plate's rim and clamping tight. The great disk of
stone had been carved, worked, and fashioned to cap the well. Weird
runes, half obliterated by time, rose beneath his straining fingers.
Conan heaved up, muscles cracking in his mighty frame. The breath
exploded from between his teeth. Balancing the massive plate against
his heaving breast, the Cimmerian took a single, unsteady step, and the
demon thrust itself from the well again.

The shimmering body of the creature shed a hellish heat and rose,
resembling a cyclone of broken mirrors. With a convulsive heave, Conan
dropped the lid. It fell across the well's mouth with a hollow boom,
like distant thunder. The demon's body was lopped off cleanly. Its
upper, half dissipated like smoke on the wind, its luster fading
rapidly to shadow. The stone lid rattled once, as if thrust up from
within; then it was still.

Conan slumped against the well, drawing breaths that seemed as sweet as
the wine of Kyros. His comrades joined him, stumbling across the fused
sand.

"Get away from the well," snapped Zelandra. "I'll seal its bonds with
magic." The sorceress muttered a brief incantation, then slapped her
palms down on the well's cap. The plate of stone glowed a dusky,
auroral blue, and a faint keening sound pained Conan's ears. Zelandra
turned from the well with a triumphant grin.

"Congratulations, my friends. We have defeated a guardian demon that
has haunted this desert since Acheron warred with Old Stygia." The
lady's face was pinched with strain, yet lit by an unnatural energy.
She clutched her silver box of Emerald Lotus, gesturing with it. "Our
barbarian friend was right again. We must learn to cease
underestimating him. That was a creature of Pteion, set to guard its
borders more than thirty centuries ago. I could feel its age as I
grappled with it. It has a mind of sorts, and intelligence. If only I
could stay and study it. What wonders the demon must have known in its
youth."

Conan doffed his blackened burnoose, baring flesh scorched scarlet.
Wordlessly, he began rummaging through the pack camel's provisions,
looking for new clothing. The barbarian shot a glance at Heng Shih, and
smiled. The Khitan had lost his turban when he fell from his camel, and
now his pate was reddened and dotted with angry blisters. His golden
kimono was worn, dirty, and bore spots of black char. He noticed the
Cimmerian's attention and grimaced, touching his blistered scalp
ruefully.

"Can it get but of the well now?" asked Neesa.

"No, child," said Zelandra grandly. "My power has sealed the demon away
until I see fit to set it free. Originally, all one had to do was open
the well to release it, but I have fused the stone with sorcery. Go
ahead, Conan, just try to lift the lid now. Even you shan't be able to
do it. Ga on. Try it."

"I believe you, milady," said Conan dryly, continuing his search
through the provisions.

"But it got out of the well before," murmured Neesa dubiously.

"Some fool must have lifted the lid," said Zelandra. "Probably many
years ago, though there is no sure way to tell. Pteor knows why anyone
would do such a thing."

"Probably looking for treasure. The poor devils must have thought they
had found a Stygian tomb." The Cimmerian finally found another burnoose
in a saddlebag, and pulled it over his stinging shoulders. It was too
small, but it would have to do.

"They found their deaths. As we might have if not for my lotus."
Zelandra examined her silver box with pride.

"And Conan's courage," said Neesa.

"Yes. Yes, of course," said the sorceress absently. She opened the
silver box and stared within. Zelandra's eyes grew vague and distant.
She licked her lips slowly. Her right hand seemed to rise of its own
accord, stroking gently around the box's silver-chased rim.

Neesa snatched the box from her mistress's hands, snapping it shut. The
scribe backed away from the sorceress, holding the box behind her body.
Her posture revealed fear and determination in equal measures.

"That's mine!" Zelandra snarled, her hands clenching into fists. "Give
it back to me, or I'll…" Her gaze abruptly focused upon the slender
form of her scribe. Their eyes met, and Zelandra's face fell.
Bewildered, she looked down at her hands and deliberately unclenched
her fists.

"Forgive me, Neesa. You are a fine servant and a better friend. Forgive
me." The voice of the sorceress was husky and halting.

"It is nothing, milady," said Neesa softly. "Here." The scribe handed
her mistress the silver box, and Zelandra fastened it securely at her
girdle, knotting it into place.

"Come then," the sorceress spoke up. "Let us mount and be off. I shall
busy myself, as we travel, making a salve to soothe our burns. Lead on,
Conan."

The barbarian rejoined his mount and swung into the saddle. His dark
face was grim. As the little caravan began its slow crawl across the
burning sands, he trained all his senses upon a single object. The
Cimmerian had poured much of the party's water supply over his body to
protect himself from the supernatural heat of the guardian demon. There
was little left. Conan sniffed the air and scanned the landscape,
searching for any evidence of a water source. If he did not find the
oasis depicted upon Zelandra's ancient map, he had no doubt that the
party would perish for lack of water.


Chapter Twenty-Five
-------------------

Except for a. single chair and several empty buckets, the little room
was devoid of furnishings. These few things sat in a rough circle
around the room's central feature. In the middle of the smooth stone
floor was a deep depression now filled with hot water. In this
impromptu tub lounged the naked form of Ethram-Fal. The steaming water
was dark and thick as syrup with powdered Emerald Lotus. The sorcerer
wallowed on his back in the sunken pool, his slight, wizened body half
floating as he breathed the perfumed air through flaring nostrils and
stared upward with dilated eyes. He leaned his shaven head back upon
the sharp rim of the tub and idly created visions to amuse himself.
Suspended in the air above his prone form, a silver flower bloomed, its
shining petals gleaming like polished steel. It rotated a moment and
then burst into a compact ball of scarlet fire. The flame blazed
brightly, then flew outward into a thousand separate pinpoints that
immediately contracted, spinning into a miniature galaxy. The revolving
disk of brilliant motes coalesced, gradually outlining the tiny,
perfect form of a woman. Once complete, the fiery homunculus began to
whirl in a wild dance, slowly shedding its flames until it was a
diminutive but perfect image of the Lady Zelandra. Naked, the little
figure writhed in erotic abandon before Ethram-Fal's greedy eyes.

The sorcerer settled himself more deeply in the hot, lotus-laden water,
feeling its power seeping into his bones. Above him, the homunculus
caressed itself and thrust tiny hands out to Ethram-Fal in shameless
supplication. Then, as he looked on, the figure began to tear at
itself, rending its flesh with its own hands until it burst abruptly
into a misty cloud of crimson droplets.

Ethram-Fal laughed, his mirth sounding metallic and inhuman in the
closed stone room. The sorcerer rolled over, letting the image wink
out, and turned his mind to more serious things.

He slouched low, letting the thickened water creep up to his lower lip,
allowing a bit to slip into his mouth and savoring the bitter bite of
it.

His continuing study of Cetriss's legendary discovery had taught him
much about it, but had left him curious on a number of key points. Most
notably, he had no idea how it had been conceived. It had no place in
nature. The Emerald Lotus was a unique hybrid of plant and predatory
fungi. Ethram-Fal believed that he now understood each distinctive
stage in its odd life cycle. Thinking to feed it again before it went
dormant, he had his soldiers drive a horse over the balcony railing and
into the pit. It had taken six men with spears to do the job, and one
of them had received a kick that stove in his ribs. The horse had
fallen beside the lotus, which had remained motionless until sensing
the blood from the beast's wounds. The lotus could be approached at any
time, and its blossoms harvested, provided that it did not smell blood.
Exactly how it sensed blood he had yet to determine, but a few moments
after the horse, wounded by prodding spearpoints, had landed at its
side, the lotus had become violently animate, leaping on the beast and
feeding upon it. After nearly draining the animal, it bloomed once
again, the newer, brighter flowers almost obscuring the ones left
unharvested from the pony that he and Ath had given it. Disturbingly,
the lotus had seemed less than satisfied with its second horse, and
continued to move about the chamber after flowering. Ethram-Fal
wondered if it was possible to give the Emerald Lotus too much
sustenance. Its appetite seemed limitless, and the blood it consumed
added to its size and strength no matter how much it had already
absorbed. The sorcerer had stared down into the cylindrical chamber and
realized it would be as foolhardy to overfeed the lotus as it would be
to starve it. The Emerald Lotus had to be kept alive and thriving, yet
if overfed it might prove difficult to manage. The sorcerer had watched
it continue to move after its feeding for almost an hour. The lotus
prowled around the walls in a restless circle, dragging the body of the
horse with it.

It never gave up its victims. They became a part of it, woven into its
grisly fabric. The lotus was bigger now, a tangled mass of hardened
branches, razor thorns, and lush, emerald blossoms. The nightmare plant
now stood at nearly the height of a man, and fairly blanketed the floor
of its chamber. Ethram-Fal knew that, in time, the blooms would dry out
and fall away, leaving the bristling bulk of the lotus in a dormant
state as it waited patiently for nourishment. Left even longer without
blood, it would use the bones of its prey to go to seed, driving black
spores into the marrow and letting its outer body fall slowly to dust.

It was fascinating, but frustrating as well. Though he now believed
that he knew the lotus and how to control it, he had not developed even
a tentative theory as to how Cetriss had created it. Even a sorcerer as
skilled and knowledgeable in the ways of growing things as himself
could not begin to imagine how such an unnatural conglomeration of
plant, animal, and fungus could have been formed. To have created such
a thing and have it live for mere moments in the laboratory would have
been a triumph; that it was nearly immortal and yielded a powerful drug
was practically beyond belief.

Ethram-Fal sat up in the tub, the water making green traceries over his
bare shoulders. He mopped his brow and blinked in the steamy heat.
Perhaps the legends were right. Perhaps Cetriss had bargained with the
Dark Gods for the lotus. If this was so, then the sorcerer had been a
man of great courage as well as great skill. If this was so, then all
his own efforts to fit the Emerald Lotus into earthly categories were
doomed from the start. It might have been conceived in a place where
the laws of nature as men knew them did not exist. Under what strange
skies had the Emerald Lotus first blossomed? And who had been the first
to harvest it?

Thinking on the accomplishments of Cetriss, Ethram-Fal felt an
unaccustomed surge of admiration. No wonder the mage had abandoned all
to seek immortality. His greatness had been such that all the brilliant
sorcerers of Old Stygia must have seemed little more than insects in
comparison. A man like that would have wanted the ages, the god-like
power to rise above the paltry world of men.

Ethram-Fal sighed deeply. He, too, wanted the ages, but he would settle
for power over the here and now. The lotus had already enhanced his
abilities far beyond his expectations and promised to make him stronger
still. To seven scarlet hells with its origins as long as he could
continue to harvest its blossoms.

The Stygian slouched back in the tub's warm embrace, eyes slitted and
glittering. He could wait a while to feed it now. Next time it
shouldn't be a horse. That had proved to be much too difficult.
Ethram-Fal thought of the soldier who had been kicked and had his ribs
broken, of how he now lay so uselessly in the Great Chamber. The
sorcerer smiled.

Heavy footfalls in the hall outside the room woke him from his pleasant
reverie. The blanket hanging over the doorway was thrust roughly aside,
and Ath came panting into the room.

"Milord, I beg—" the tall soldier began.

"What is this? Did I not leave explicit orders that I was not to be
disturbed?" Ethram-Fal sat up in his bath, a small, shrunken, and naked
form that filled the armored warrior with a fear that jellied his guts.

"Milord, please, I would not have come here without reason."

There was a moment's silence while Ethram-Fal thought on this. The
yellow-green illumination of the light-globe played along Ath's rangy
form, highlighting the nervous tic that leapt beneath his right eye.

"No," said Ethram-Fal finally, "I suppose that you wouldn't. Speak.
What is it?"

A lungful of air escaped from Ath's lips and he realized that he had
been holding his breath. A hand went involuntarily to his cheek to
quell the tic there.

"There is something that you must see, milord. One of the men has been
killed."

"What? How?"

"Please, you must see for yourself, milord. It was one of the guards.
He was found in the room of the great statue."

At that Ethram-Fal was up and out of his bath, scrubbing at his scrawny
body with a towel and quickly struggling into his gray robes. He was
following Ath down the stone hallway in mere moments, his bare feet
leaving damp prints in the dust. They did not speak again until they
came into the huge, circular chamber.

A soldier stood at the base of the black statue, thrusting his
light-globe feebly at the encroaching darkness. He stared silently at
them as they approached. Ethram-Fal hardly noticed the living man at
first, his eyes were fixed upon the smooth block of stone between the
god-thing's extended paws.

A man lay spread-eagle there, his head close to the black sphinx's
glossy breast. His arms and legs were thrown out to each corner of the
smoothly worn block, where black rings of untarnished metal were set in
the stone. He was not bound. There was a ragged hole in his chest,
piercing the mail. Bright blood spattered the sable stone in loops and
strings. It pooled, cooling, beneath the body. The featureless oval of
the sphinx's face hung above them like a black moon in the darkness,
admitting nothing.

"What in Set's name?" Ethram-Fal's voice was a dry croak.

"It is Dakent, milord." Ath's tones were steady and emotionless. "He
was on guard with Phandoros when it happened."

Ethram-Fal's gaze fixed on the man with the light-globe, and the
slender Stygian flinched as if stabbed. He did not, however, speak
until spoken to.

"What happened? How did your partner come to this?"

Phandoros licked his lips and spoke in a reedy voice. "It grew chill in
the courtyard, milord. It was nearly dawn and a wind came up the
canyon. I left Dakent alone at the portal to go and fetch my cloak. I
found it, took a sip of wine, and returned to find him gone." Phandoros
hesitated, swallowing audibly.

"What then?" urged Ethram-Fal impatiently.

"I called for him in the courtyard, then came back in to seek him
inside. When I didn't find him, I woke Captain Ath and we searched the
palace together. When we came to this room…" The soldier's voice choked
off and he seemed unable to go on.

Ethram-Fal turned to his captain, "Ath, continue."

"Outside this room, we heard a voice."

"A voice? Who spoke?" The sorcerer held his hands at his waist,
knotting and unknotting his fingers distractedly.

"I don't know, milord. We came in at the far entrance and heard the
voice whispering. He spoke no words that I understood. When we lifted
our lights and called out, whoever it was fled. We could hear his feet
on the stone. We gave chase but hesitated when we saw Dakent. By the
time that we started after the intruder again, he had escaped out the
portal."

"It's gone? You're sure it left the palace?"

"Positive, milord. I followed outside and heard the sounds of him
climbing the canyon wall."

"Climbing that sheer wall?"

"Yes, milord."

"Does anyone else know of this?" demanded Ethram-Fal.

"No, milord. Everyone else sleeps," said Ath.

"Good. No one else shall hear of it. All shall know that Dakent was
bitten by an adder while on watch and that his body was given to the
lotus. Is that understood?"

"Yes, milord," said Ath.

"Phandoros?"

"Y-yes, milord. It is understood."

The small group of men stood in grim silence for a brief time. The
light-globe shed its gently wavering illumination over the sprawled
body, lending it the ghastly illusion of movement, while the shadows
seemed to press inward and hold the living in place.

"Why didn't he cry out?" asked Phandoros in a small voice.

"Look at his throat," said Ethram-Fal. "His windpipe has been crushed
shut."

"You mean he was seized, silenced, and dragged in here to be slain?"
Ath's voice rose in repugnance and horror.

"Yes," said Ethram-Fal in softer tones. "And where is his heart?"

The two soldiers started and looked about themselves as if they might
find the organ that had given Dakent life lying at their feet.

But it was gone.


Chapter Twenty-Six
------------------

An ancient lean-to of dry sticks and faded camel-skin tatters waved in
the hot desert breeze. It sat forlorn and fallen in upon itself at the
base of one of several palms that stood about the oasis like sentries
swaying with weariness in the heat. The trees threw inviting splotches
of dark shadow upon the sun-bright sand, but the eyes of the weary
travelers were fixed on the pool.

Sunken into a sandy depression and half surrounded by grateful shrubs,
the water gleamed a vivid blue, reflecting the cloudless sky above.

"Now that, by Crom, is a most welcome sight." Conan slid easily from
his camel's back and led the others toward the pool's nearest shore.
His three comrades followed, stretching legs aching from hours in the
saddle.

"Is the oasis where the map showed it to be?" Neesa pulled back her
hood and shook out her tangled cloud of black hair. The scribe wondered
if she could be patient enough to wait until everyone drank their fill
before throwing herself headlong into the waterhole.

"More or less," said Conan. "I steered us by the map until I could
smell water, then followed the scent."

Zelandra jogged to Conan's side, her silver-threaded hair bouncing with
her movements. As they neared the pool's rim, her hand closed on his
thick shoulder.

"Hold," she said urgently. "Something here is not right…"

Conan's eyes caught a trace of movement in the pool's clear shallows. A
thin stream of bubbles rippled from a spot in the sand beneath the
water. The stream widened as he watched, sending tiny concentric swells
rolling across the still surface of the pool. Heng Shih and Neesa
shouldered up to where Zelandra and Conan stood staring. The
barbarian's skin crawled with a dread so strong and insistent that it
was almost a premonition.

"Get back!" he bellowed as an explosive concussion ripped the surface
of the pool, hurling white spray far up into the empty sky. Where the
stream of bubbles had emerged from the pool's floor, a thick shaft of
shining green, like the trunk of a tree, now thrust itself into view.
It shook, jerked, and stretched itself taller than a man, lashing the
water to froth. A cluster of pale, bloated, petal-like growths covered
the thing's crown. Its body was a densely wrinkled green cylinder,
crisscrossed with pulsing veins. A pair of ridged tentacles burst from
each side of its midsection, lashing the air. A thick mass of roiling
roots formed its base, heaving at the pool's floor, lifting the
grotesque thing up out of the water, moving it toward the shore and the
stunned human intruders.

A whiplike tentacle whistled toward Conan, snapping itself around his
right calf. It pulled forward with incredible strength, jerking his leg
up, upending the barbarian's body, so that for a moment he was
suspended head down. The Cimmerian's sword leapt into his hands, making
a flashing arc that slashed through the hard, ridged arm and dropped
him to the sand.

Heng Shih's hands caught Zelandra's waist and tossed her forcefully
back. She stumbled out of range even as a tentacle curled around her
bodyguard's torso. The emerald arm constricted, sinking sharply into
Heng Shih's abdomen, drawing him in toward the hideous thing.

Conan sprang cat-like up off the ground, ducking beneath one flailing
tentacle as another struck him across neck and chest like a
slavemaster's whip. He twisted away, stumbling in the sand, a line of
dripping crimson bright on his bronzed throat.

The unnatural plant proceeded to pull itself out of the pool on its
tangled carpet of roots while bone-white thorns began sprouting from
the net of wrinkles on its swaying trunk. Wicked, needle-sharp spikes
pushed into view, jutting the length of a man's hand. The unladen
tentacles lengthened, whipping wildly about as the one gripping Heng
Shih pulled steadily, tirelessly at him.

The Cimmerian lunged to his friend's aid. A questing tentacle writhed
about the barbarian's left arm, biting into muscle and spoiling a
stroke meant to free Heng Shih. The tentacle he had severed snaked
clumsily between Conan's legs, seeking an ankle.

The Khitan's boots plowed twin furrows in the sandy soil as he was
drawn irresistibly toward the thing. The tentacle sawed through his
kimono and into his midsection, sending trickles of brilliant scarlet
across golden silk. Clinging to the imprisoning appendage with one
hand, Heng Shih managed to draw out his scimitar with the other.

The plant-thing, now well up onto the shore, gave a sudden heave on the
tentacle grasping the Khitan. Heng Shih lost his footing and stumbled
helplessly forward, toward the thing's body, which now bristled with
dagger-like thorns. He made a desperate thrust with his scimitar, and
the point of his blade pierced the trunk's thick skin with a moist
crunch. The Khitan's body jolted to a stop as he braced the pommel of
the sword against his belly. To draw him closer, the monstrosity would
be forced to drive his blade deeper into its own body. The length of
his scimitar was all that kept Heng Shih from being pulled onto the
murderous thorns.

Conan stomped the wounded tentacle into the sand while pulling against
the horror gripping his arm. It jerked to and fro in a frenzy,
confounding his efforts to hack himself free.

The ghastly thing kept inching forward, thick petals bobbing in the
sunlight. Then it leaned back and gave another tremendous heave, nearly
unbalancing Conan and driving half the length of Heng Shih's scimitar
into its fibrous body. In the instant that it righted itself, the
tension on its tentacles went slack and Conan moved. He staggered up to
the abomination and, with a swift whirl of steel, struck off at the
base the tentacle that gripped his arm. The appendage released him and
dropped, writhing in the sand like a maddened serpent. The wounded
tentacle, freed from beneath Conan's boot, finally found the
Cimmerian's ankle just as the last free tentacle snapped around Heng
Shih's chest and added its relentless pressure to that already drawing
the Khitan onto the spiked trunk. The ridged arm around Conan's ankle
constricted with savage force and wrenched the Cimmerian away from the
creature he had wounded. Conan fell heavily on his side and was pulled
away, cursing and struggling.

Heng Shih's face was fixed in a grimace of agony as he bore up under
the monstrous pressure exerted by the remorseless tentacles. His hands
were white on the hilt of his sword, clinging doggedly to the only
thing that kept him from embracing the nightmare plant's spined trunk.
The pommel of his scimitar thrust painfully against his belly even as
his blade slid an inch deeper into the monster's dense, wooden flesh.

Then a knife hurtled from nowhere, thudding into the horror's emerald
trunk a handbreadth from Heng Shih's face. Neesa's aim was as. true as
ever; but if the sorcerous abomination perceived her marksmanship, it
gave no sign.

The tentacle dragging Conan away from the fray suddenly released him
and flew back to whip with vicious force around Heng Shih's shoulders.
The breath was driven from the Khitan's lungs. The plant-thing was
willfully impaling itself upon his blade in order to draw him to it.
Heng Shih's scimitar was slowly being driven hilt-deep into its trunk,
and now he held himself mere inches above the hungry thorns.

The Cimmerian leapt up and sprang back into the fray. Skidding to a
halt in the damp sand, he braced his feet and delivered a terrific
roundhouse cut to the plant-thing's body, hewing almost a third of the
way through the trunk like a woodsman chopping a tree.

Colorless fluid gushed from the yawning wound, spraying Conan's arms
and face. Its blood was cool and, where it touched the barbarian's
lips, tasteless. It was water. Realization translated into
instantaneous action. Conan hurled himself away from the thing even as
the wounded tentacle released its grip on Heng Shih and darted toward
the Cimmerian's legs with terrible speed. It dodged over his low slash
with unnatural agility and wrapped itself around his throat. The
tentacle drew taut and clenched furiously, instantly cutting off
Conan's breath, wrenching him from his feet, and dragging him,
struggling, across the ground. A choked cry of pain and fury tore from
the Cimmerian's throat as his body slid across the sand toward the
waiting, wicked thorns. His free hand clutched at the tentacle
encircling his throat, prying the cruelly ridged thing from his
windpipe, while his sword hand whipped up and down in a convulsive
surge of raw strength. The blade hewed through the oppressive arm,
freeing him. Rolling, tearing the severed length of tentacle from his
neck, Conan scrambled over the ground with the desperate speed of a
wounded panther. The barbarian slid to a stop behind the obscene thing
as four new tentacles erupted from its body.

From among the writhing nest of roots that formed the abomination's
base came a thick cable as black and shiny as oiled leather. It was as
big around as a man's thigh and led back across the sunbaked sand into
the pool.

As the four new tentacles shot toward him, Conan rose on his knees,
lifted his scimitar above his head, and slashed downward with all the
remaining power in his body. The blade tore through the black cable and
buried itself in the dry earth. Water burst from the sundered taproot
like blood from a riven heart.

The plant-thing shuddered, the veins webbing its spiked trunk ceased
throbbing, and its tentacles fell limply to the sand. It settled down
heavily upon its bed of roots and then toppled sideways with slow
grace, like a hewn tree. Its green skin was suddenly thick with dew,
water running from its fallen trunk. It shriveled, giving up to the
thirsting sand the water that had lent it life.

Heng Shih stood glassy-eyed where it had released him, bands of blood
running freely down his torso. He staggered two unsteady steps away
from the dead thing and collapsed onto the sand. The breath came loudly
from his gaping mouth, and his shaven skull glistened with sweat.

Conan clambered over the corpse of the plant-thing, avoiding the
sagging thorns, and fetched it a kick in its flowered crown. The
drooping petals burst under his boot's impact, spattering water and
vegetable pulp. He looked to Zelandra, who knelt beside Heng Shih,
ministering to his wounds.

"I trust that was one of Ethram-Fal's guards," he said, tugging at his
torn and bloodied shirt.

"Of course," said Zelandra absently, her attention on her bodyguard,
who stared ahead stoically as she daubed at the wound that encircled
his midriff. "That was a piece of work befitting a sorcerer dedicated
to the magic of plants." She nodded at the toppled abomination, where
it lay slowly dissolving into the sand. "A hell of an achievement,
actually. The Emerald Lotus must have improved his abilities by no
small amount."

"Crom," grunted the barbarian, peeling off his shirt and standing in
his tarnished mail. "So we can expect to meet more of his creations?"

"Little doubt of it. I'm fairly certain that he can only send forth his
projected self to places that he has already been in the flesh. Even
so, I imagine he has paid at least one more visit to my house, found me
gone, and drawn his own conclusions. It shouldn't take a great deal of
wit to figure that I'm coming for him and his lotus."

The Cimmerian wondered if she felt equal to the task of battling such
an accomplished sorcerer. He wondered how she felt about closing in on
a powerful enemy who was probably aware of her approach. He wondered,
but said nothing.

Neesa dabbed at the gash across his neck and collarbone with a cloth
she had dampened in the pool. He let her swab at it and the deeper
incision about his left biceps, then pulled away.

"Ymir, woman, I've been hurt worse by a hangover. Help Zelandra tend to
Heng Shih before his yellow hide is bled white. I'll gather tinder for
a fire and pitch the tents."

By the time that the sun had fallen below the western horizon, a tidy
camp of three tents had been set up and a frugal meal of dried beef,
hard bread, and oasis water had been served.

The campfire crackled, radiating a pleasant warmth onto sands now chill
with the coming of night. Beyond the flaring glow of the fire and the
dark ring of undergrowth, the desert receded in waves of sand, black
and silver by moonlight, like a frozen sea. The slender scimitar of a
quarter moon rode high in the heavens, skirting the icy torrent of the
Milky Way.

"I'll take the first watch," said Conan, squatting beside the dying
fire. Heng Shih nodded in gratitude as he rose with care from his seat
and moved slowly toward his tent. Zelandra pulled her kettle from the
red-orange coals and poured herself some tea. The gentle aroma of
jasmine rose with the steam from her cup. Neesa's head lay comfortably
upon the Cimmerian's shoulder, his arm about her trim waist.

A thin cry echoed through the desert night, diminished by distance and
quickly fading. Neesa's body tensed against Conan's.

"What was that?" she whispered uneasily.

"A jackal," grunted the barbarian.

"Perhaps the Yizil," said Zelandra, blowing across the top of her
teacup. Firelight turned her eyes to flame.

"Yizil?" asked Neesa, now sitting up stiffly.

"Desert ghouls," said Conan. "Haunters of ruins and gnawers of bones.
They shun the open desert."

"Do they?" Neesa's eyes probed the darkness beyond the campfire's glow.
Conan laughed gustily.

"They do. Go to bed. I promise that if any Yizil come by, I shall feed
them to their brethren."

Neesa got to her feet and sidled reluctantly toward the Cimmerian's
tent. "Now I shan't sleep until you join me."

Conan watched her disappear through the flap and frowned across the
fire at Zelandra. "Did you have to tell her that? You knew that the
Yizil are no danger here."

Zelandra grinned at him. She lifted her hands in an innocent shrug and
nodded toward his tent.

"You should thank me," she said, and Conan smiled back at her.

"Seriously, my friend." Her voice grew softer as she continued. "I am
concerned that we encountered a creature of Ethram-Fal's at such a
distance from his lair."

"It is not such a distance. When we were atop the great sand dune
beside this oasis, I could see the Dragon's Spine."

"Ishtar," she breathed. "So swiftly? You are truly a fine guide,
Conan."

"Well," said the Cimmerian gruffly, "we aren't there yet. We must
travel southeast into the foothills surrounding the Dragon's Spine in
order to approach it from the angle we saw in Ethram-Fal's sorcerous
projection. Tomorrow we should get close enough to tell whether I am a
good guide or not."

Zelandra nodded and Conan rose, dusted himself off, and went to walk
the perimeter.

In a short time he alone was awake, moving restlessly about the camp as
silent as a shadow, disappearing in one direction to reappear in a few
moments from another, memorizing the contours of the waste around them.

Conan stood watch, while overhead the moon rose, the stars wheeled, and
a flight of meteors slashed the sky with fire.


Chapter Twenty-Seven
--------------------

The desert floor rose gradually, lifting into the rough uplands of
rugged rock that held, somewhere in their labyrinthine vastness, the
sculpted ridge that was the Dragon's Spine. The seemingly endless ocean
of ochre dunes gave way to low hillocks of crumbling soil that gave way
in turn to a new wilderness of stone outcrops and towers. Here the
surface of the earth had buckled up, as though from unthinkable
pressures within, shedding its skin of soil and baring raw and naked
bones of mineral.

The party moved With excruciating slowness through this tortuous
landscape. High up on the ragged rim of a ridge, Conan pointed off to
the east, where the distinct and regular shape of the Dragon's Spine
lay shimmering in the distance. From the lofty ridge they descended
into even worse terrain—a literal maze of canyons and ravines that
split the earth like cracks in the sunbaked bottom of a dry riverbed.
The weary quartet advanced and then retreated down narrow defiles that
wound promisingly in the right direction, only to end abruptly in a
vertical wall. Canyons that began as broad and as easy to traverse as
the Caravan Road shrank along their length until the body of an
unmounted man could not squeeze through. Any passage they took
initially seemed to lead in the direction that they sought, only to
bend or double back until the travelers were riding away from their
goal. Time and again the Cimmerian dismounted and climbed to a high
vantage point in order to get his bearings. Agile as an ape, he would
clamber up a rock wall or scale a stony spire to get a fix on the
Dragon's Spine. The party would wait in dogged silence for him to
return and order that they turn around, return to a fork, retry a
passage that led in the wrong direction, or simply continue along the
path that they were on.

It was well into the afternoon when they emerged from the mouth of a
narrow gorge into a wide clearing that lay open to the sky. Passing
from the cool shadows cast by rock walls into the golden glare of the
sun, the party squinted, shaded their eyes and looked about. The
clearing formed an irregular hub into which three small canyons opened.
Off to the left a slender cleft ran away to the northeast, its walls
rising swiftly and sharply from the floor of the clearing into a high
series of jagged pinnacles. To the right a larger defile dropped
rapidly away to the southwest, its flattened path strewn with gravel
and bracketed by low walls of broken stone. Directly in front of them
the ground rose up into a worn hill of eroded rock, obscuring the
opposite side of the clearing from view.

To the surprise of all, Conan nudged his camel to a trot and rode
straight up the low hill before them. They followed in silence, having
long since accepted the barbarian's guidance through this desert maze.

Heng Shih was as expressionless as ever, seemingly unperturbed by the
bandaged wound that girdled his broad belly. Neesa rose nervously erect
in her saddle, her eyes rarely leaving her mistress. The Lady Zelandra
stared forward sightlessly, speaking only when spoken to and clutching
the leather-wrapped box in her lap with both hands. She had made
herself a turban and tucked her long, silver-shot hair inside it. Her
face, sunburned and haggard, looked years older than it had only a few
days before.

Once atop the hill, the party drew to a halt, their camels snuffling in
gratitude. The far side of the hill descended steeply in a broad swath
of loose stones and gravel. It fell away for many yards before ending
abruptly at the edge of a precipitous cliff, where it apparently
dropped away into an even lower canyon.

"There," said Conan, lifting a bare, bronzed arm. "The Dragon's Spine."
The party stared off to the northeast and saw that he was right. The
saw-toothed formation was just visible over the walls of the canyon
that opened on their left, and, for the first time, its alignment
seemed correct. Its appearance closely matched their first view of it
in the background of Ethram-Fal's sorcerous projection.

"At last," whispered the Lady Zelandra in a small, dry voice.

"We make camp here," said the Cimmerian. "I believe that narrow ravine
will lead us to Ethram-Fal's lair, but I cannot be certain how distant
it is."

"So there is something that you cannot do, barbarian?" said Zelandra.
Her right hand crept up her ribs and pressed there as if stanching a
wound. "I am astonished to hear you admit it. This is my expedition and
I insist that we proceed down that canyon immediately. We have no time
to make camp. We will close with Ethram-Fal and destroy him before this
day is done."

"Zelandra," said Conan evenly, "the day is already nearly done.
Darkness falls much swifter at the bottom of a canyon than it does in
the open air. There are clouds on the western horizon that may bring a
storm, and we have no way of knowing how much farther there is to
travel. Moreover, you are tired, milady."

"Tired? You insolent fool, even weary, I have strength enough to do
what I must do. I say we go forward!" She wheeled upon her servants.
"Would you follow this insubordinate savage instead of your mistress?
I-I…" Her voice trailed off as her gaze passed over the concerned faces
of Neesa and Heng Shih. Both of her hands clutched her torso as if they
could unwind the bands of pain that tightened there. Tears glimmered in
her dark eyes.

"Ah, sweet Ishtar's mercy," she said, voice low and choked with shame.
"I'm sorry, my friends. Our comrade Conan is right, we must camp here
for I am tired. So very tired."

Heng Shih seemed to appear at her camel's side. No one saw him
dismount. His great hands gripped Zelandra gently about the waist and
plucked her from the saddle as lightly as if she were a mannequin of
silk. He set her on her feet, swept the dirt from the top of a
flattened stone, and motioned for her to sit. She did, pressing her
face into her hands as though she could not bear to look upon her
fellow travelers. Conan spoke again.

"Zelandra, after we set up camp, Heng Shih and I will scout down the
narrow canyon. We will go as far as we can before nightfall. We may
well find Ethram-Fal's hiding place. If all goes well, we will be
planning our method of attack tonight and carrying it out tomorrow
morning. Rest, be strong, and you shall have your revenge."

Zelandra nodded, taking her hands from her face but keeping her eyes
lowered. The remainder of the party went about setting up camp.
Shortly, the three small tents were up, situated back and away from the
hill's leading edge so that they would not be visible from any point in
the clearing below. Conan forbade a fire, saying that they could have a
cold supper whenever they hungered and that he wouldn't eat until he
and Heng Shih returned from their scouting expedition. He balanced this
unhappy news by breaking out one of the party's few bottles of wine and
passing it around. Looking drawn and shaken, Zelandra took a token sip
before retiring to her tent. As soon as she was out of earshot, the
Cimmerian turned to Neesa.

"Has she used the last of her lotus?"

"No. I know that she has more, though I'm not certain how much. She
does not want to use it. Not even the tiny bit that would ease her
pain. She fears that if she does, her resolve will weaken and she will
take too much or all of it. She grows desperate. I'm sorry, Conan. You
know that she meant you no insult, do you not?"

"Her words do not concern me; her actions do. Will she be strong enough
to face the Stygian sorcerer when we finally find him?"

Neesa raised her pale hands in a helpless shrug. "How can I say? I
think that she plans to use the last of the lotus to strengthen herself
just before engaging Ethram-Fal. It really does seem to empower her
sorcery. She took some just before sending the flame-wall against those
bandits."

"She goes to battle with a wizard who claims to have an unlimited
supply of the cursed drug. I wonder what manner of sorcery he will send
against us."

To this Neesa made no reply. At her side, Heng Shih leaned forward and
his hands made a series of deliberate motions in the air before him.
Conan looked to Neesa questioningly.

"He asks if you wish to leave. He says that he will hold no grudge
against you if you do."

"Hell," Conan grinned wolfishly, tossing back his black mane. "I
promised Zelandra my services and will not back out now just because
it's getting interesting."

The slightest trace of a smile came to the Khitan's lips and he
extended his hand, offering the Cimmerian the wine bottle. Conan
accepted it, threw back his head and took a long pull, his throat
working as he swallowed.

"Ah," he sighed with satisfaction. "That is a passing good wine. Come
now, let us dig out this scorpion's nest. Neesa, you must keep watch on
the mouths of the canyons. I doubt very much that anyone will come out
of the other two, but watch them anyway. If anyone but Heng Shih and I
come out of the one that we're heading into, that means we're probably
dead. Keep low and awaken Zelandra. If intruders are about to discover
you, flee. If you can't win free, kill as many as you can however you
can. Scream like the devil, and if Heng Shih and I still live, we'll
hear you, for sound carries very far in this waste. If we can, we'll
come to your aid or at least avenge you. Stay alert."

With that the Cimmerian threw an arm around the woman's waist and drew
her to him. While they kissed with undisguised passion, Heng Shih fell
to studying the sky. He noted that there was indeed a dark mass of
clouds swelling on the western horizon. He had time to observe it quite
closely before Conan clapped him on the shoulder.

"Come on man, the day grows old."

The two men scuffled down the rocky slope and strode purposefully
toward the dark slash of the canyon's mouth. Neesa dropped to a crouch
at the crest of the hill's rise, nestling into the shadow of a boulder
and wiping tingling lips with the back of a hand. As Conan and Heng
Shih stepped into the narrow gap and disappeared from sight, she became
conscious of a painful lump in her throat and cursed herself softly for
a weakling. She reached back into the loose froth of her black hair and
pulled the throwing dagger from her nape sheath. She thrust it into the
hard ground before her and settled down to wait.


Chapter Twenty-Eight
--------------------

The red sun, bloated and sullen, lay impaled upon the sharp and broken
ridges to the west when the thing that had been Gulbanda of Shem came
to a halt.

He was a ragged figure now, his garments tattered and stained. His
hands, face, and beard were caked with ochre grime that he had made no
effort to wipe away. Eyes as glassy and expressionless as chips of
black quartz peered into the dim canyon mouth that opened before him.

Gulbanda had been walking for a night and a day without cease. The
nearly fresh horse that he had taken from Nath, the archer, had been
ridden relentlessly until it collapsed beneath him. Then he had walked,
heedless of the killing sun, moving onward because it was all that he
was capable of doing.

Now Gulbanda stopped and stared into the impenetrable darkness. A
breeze, cool as a spring, blew from within the canyon and stirred his
torn cloak.

He felt the pull deep inside his breast. Deep, where Shakar the
Keshanian had stabbed to his core. It was as though a strong fist had
closed about his pierced and withered heart and pulled steadily upon it
in the direction that he must go. The necromantic sorcery that kept
Gulbanda moving among the living also gave him his unerring sense of
direction.

Standing as silent and motionless as his stone surroundings, Gulbanda
searched what remained of his memories. They were vague tatters now,
like wisps of dank fog fading on the chill wind of approaching night.

He remembered a dark room and a man bound to a steel chair.

He remembered a dagger sliding over the corded muscles of that man's
forearm.

He remembered his sword flying from his fist.

Gulbanda lifted his sword hand and studied the dry stumps of two
fingers. The black-haired Cimmerian. It was he who was responsible for
all of this. It was he whose blood burned and pulled so deeply within
Gulbanda's breast, drawing him onward with an irresistible compulsion
that could end only with the barbarian's death. Zelandra's death. The
acquisition of the silver box that Shakar craved so terribly.

Shakar the Keshanian—Gulbanda remembered his master, though only as an
imperious face making difficult demands of him. He must do the things
that Shakar had asked of him so long ago. He would please Shakar and
the sorcerer would help him.

How could he help him? Gulbanda groped among the shattered shards of
his memory. He lowered his head, the only sign of the torment that
surged within as he strove to grasp some small part of his vanished
humanity and felt the ceaseless, tidal pull of Conan's blood drawing
him forward and away.

Gulbanda remembered, and raised his head. If he did as Shakar wished,
then the sorcerer would make the pulling in his breast cease and let
him die. That was all that had to be done. If he killed the
black-haired barbarian and the sorceress and got the silver box, then
he would be allowed to die. There was nothing in all the world to
desire except death.

The thing that had been a man and a warrior closed its dead eyes for
the first time in days. Gulbanda saw his strong hands falling upon the
Cimmerian, rending his flesh and breaking his limbs. He heard the
barbarian's bones crack and his agonized cry of defeat.

Death was a most glorious reward for such a slight and agreeable
service. ,

Gulbanda stalked into the canyon and was swallowed by darkness.


Chapter Twenty-Nine
-------------------

The canyon walls rose to either side of the two men, hemming them into
a defile not ten paces across. Heng Shih fought a moment's
claustrophobia as they passed from the open clearing into the shadowy,
enclosed space of the narrow cleft.

The first thing he became aware of was the silence. When riding with
the party, the desolate and deserted landscape seemed invested with
their life and movement. Their speech and the steady sounds of their
passage obscured the awesome silence of the wasteland. Walking with
quiet caution behind the barbarian, whose cat-like tread seemed not to
disturb so much as a pebble, the full weight of the desert's silent
emptiness seemed to bear down upon him. The only sound was the
occasional rising of the wind, moaning like a ghost through the maze of
canyons.

Heng Shih shook his bald head in a deliberate effort to rid himself of
such useless thoughts. They were approaching the stronghold of an
enemy.

They walked for almost an hour. The ridged walls of the narrow canyon
rose slowly until they loomed at five times the height of a man. The
path continued straight and the floor fairly even, cluttered only by
the occasional pile of stone and sand that marked the site of a rock
fall. As they stepped carefully about the base of one of these
irregular heaps of debris, the sun broke free of the clouds on the
western horizon and spilled its long rays across the empty desert. The
stone passageway was immediately filled with a strange roseate
illumination. Heng Shih looked about in wonder. The Cimmerian paid no
heed, realizing that the sun's last light was rebounding from the red
rock walls, tinting the cooling air with a lurid glow.

Conan raised his hand to signal a halt, and the Khitan shouldered up
next to him. Ahead, the walls drew together as the canyon bent, turning
sharply to the east. The Cimmerian lowered himself into a crouch and
drew his scimitar, which in the ruddy light seemed dipped in blood.
Heng Shih left his weapon in its sheath, but bent down beside his
leader.

"That," whispered Conan, gesturing with his bared sword, "is a fine
place for a sentry. Or an ambush."

Heng Shih nodded to show that he understood, but the Cimmerian was
already moving forward. He clung to the shadows at the base of the
canyon wall, as silent as smoke on the desert wind. The Khitan
followed, slowed by his desire to match Conan's stealth. The red glow
of sunset faded abruptly, plunging the canyon into a murky gray
twilight.

At the corner the barbarian drew up short, listening. Placing a palm on
the cool stone of the canyon wall, he dropped to one knee and peered
carefully around the bend. He stared ahead for a moment, then looked
back at Heng Shih, who was still advancing with careful steps. When the
big Khitan was finally at his side, he sheathed his sword and spoke
softly.

"We have found it. Take a look." With that Conan stood and leapt nimbly
across the open bend in the passage. He lit soundlessly in the shadow
of an ancient rock fall, crouched, and continued his judicious
examination of whatever lay around the canyon's corner.

Heng Shih swallowed heavily, went to his knees, and slowly leaned
forward until he could see around the bend. His eyes widened in
amazement.

Ahead, the narrow canyon continued for another six or eight paces
before lowering slightly and opening out into a broad, extended
cul-de-sac. Hemmed by sheer walls, the canyon ended in a wide clearing
with a floor as smooth and level as the courtyard of a castle. In the
clearing's center, not twenty paces away, two men lingered about a
circular pit. One squatted beside it, holding his hands toward it as if
to warm himself. The other leaned upon a spear, regarding his companion
and speaking in low tones. Each wore the gleaming mail and fine silk of
a Stygian mercenary. Short swords hung at their belts and their heads
were protected by caps of steel.

But it was what lay beyond the sentries that captured the attention of
the intruders and had them agape in the concealing shadows. Another
twenty paces beyond the smoldering firepit rose the rear wall of the
box canyon, and it was carved into the likeness of a great palace
facade. Twilight had begun to purple the sky above the clearing and the
brilliant pinpoints of the first stars were just flickering into life,
but there was still enough daylight to see the wonder that was the
Palace of Cetriss.

A row of four massive pillars, each as great in girth as the mightiest
tree, reached up from their roots in wide bases set into the clearing's
floor to support the overhanging lip of the canyon rim high above.
Though obviously cut directly out of the cliff face, each pillar stood
independently. An open black doorway was set between the two central
pillars, and a broad flight of stairs descended from the ominous portal
to the floor of the natural courtyard. Even at a distance and in the
dying light, the carvings that surrounded the frame of the doorway
appeared elaborate and passing strange. Spread out above the dark
opening was a row of three equally dark windows, each bracketed with
worn carvings similar to those that adorned the portal. A second row of
open windows was arrayed above that, close to the tops of the towering
pillars and the carved crest of the canyon rim.

Conan shivered in the cooling breeze. The palace had at least three
stories and had been sculpted from living rock, a feat that would have
astounded even the pyramid-building Stygians. Crom alone knew how
deeply its halls and chambers bored into the desert's stony breast.
Facing them in the deepening twilight, it projected an overpowering
aura of unthinkable age and implacable purpose.

The Cimmerian's blue eyes burned upon the open doorway, narrowing in
thought. There was no door or gate that he could discern, though he
couldn't rule out some sort of sorcerous barrier. Even without any kind
of closure, the passage could be held by very few men against a much
more formidable force than the Lady Zelandra's little party. His gaze
lifted to the open windows arrayed above the door, and then up to the
second row of windows. He frowned as the voices of the sentries around
the firepit rose in argument.

"So now we freeze?" demanded the fellow squatting beside the pit. "Why
should we be forbidden fires without as well as within the palace? A
late watch without hot mulled wine will be a pain in the arse. Come on,
the last embers are almost out. Let me add a stick of firewood. No one
will be the wiser."

"Hush," said the soldier who stood leaning upon his spear. "Don't be an
idiot. Ath said there are to be no fires. The master obviously wishes
to avoid showing our location to intruders."

"Intruders? Bah! Who would venture into this hellish land? And how
would they find us if they did? I tell you, the master's gone soft in
the head."

The spear carrier recoiled at this, shooting a glance at the darkened
door of the palace. "Quiet, you fool! If the master hears you talking
like that, you'll feed the lotus."

The other went silent, staring glumly into the Tire pit. He drew a
small, dried branch from beneath his silken cloak and thrust it down
into the pit, working it into the ashes there.

"That will keep the coals alive," he said in sullen tones. "You'll
thank me after I've made the mulled wine."

"If it starts to smoke, I'll put it out with your blood," replied the
other curtly.

Conan leapt silently back across the canyon floor, landing on all fours
beside Heng Shih, who twitched in surprise. He had a tense moment,
wondering if the guards had spotted the barbarian, but there was no
outcry. Even if they had glanced his way, the Cimmerian had been merely
a shadow moving among shadows. He laid a hard hand upon the Khitan's
shoulder.

"Come, let us return to camp."

The return journey along the darkening canyon seemed swifter arid
easier to Heng Shih. Conan was able to recall every irregularity in the
path and led his companion as surely as though he had traversed its
length a dozen times. As they drew close to camp, Heng Shih began to
relax and stepped up his pace to walk beside the Cimmerian. He had been
doing this for only a moment when Conan drew to a sudden stop. The
Khitan stumbled to a halt, staring at the barbarian without
comprehension. Lifting his face and flaring his nostrils, Conan leaned
into the gentle breeze, while Heng Shih looked on in amazement. He
reached out a hand to tap the Cimmerian's shoulder, but drew back when
the barbarian shot a glance at him and spoke.

"They've built a fire."

Heng Shih's head snapped up, searching the slender slash of cobalt sky
that was visible between the canyon's walls. No smoke trail could be
seen there. When he lowered his gaze, he saw that Conan had started
toward the camp at a dead run. Heng Shih took off in pursuit, wincing
as the slap of his sandals on the rocky path was magnified and hurled
back at him by the stone walls.


Chapter Thirty
--------------

Ethram-Fal lay asleep and dreaming, and in his dream he knew fear.

In his dream he strode across a floor of black marble through pale and
densely swirling mists. In his dream it seemed to him that he had been
walking for an eternity without encountering anything save the silent
mist that moved and roiled without the benefit of a wind to stir it.
Then there arose in Ethram-Fal the absolute certainty that he was not
alone in the limitless fog and that something was lurking ahead of him,
just out of sight. Along with this certainty came an overpowering
dread. Whatever it was that concealed itself in the mists, the Stygian
did not wish to encounter it. Ethram-Fal abruptly changed the direction
of his steps, swinging to the right and hastening forward.

Almost immediately he felt the foreboding presence once again and this
time a huge and shapeless shadow darkened the fog before him. He came
to a fearful stop, his breath going ragged in his throat, then spun
around and ran in the opposite direction.

In his dream Ethram-Fal had not taken a dozen steps in wild flight
before the dark presence came out of the mist, in front of him yet
again, as though his desperate drive to escape had only brought him
nearer to that which he wished above all to avoid.

It was the idol of Cetriss's temple. The nameless, faceless sphinx of
black stone lounged before him so that he ran full between its
outstretched paws before sliding to a frantic halt. It was motionless,
a thing of carved stone that appeared rooted to the mist-blanketed
floor, yet it menaced the Stygian in a way that nothing in his life had
ever done. He fell to his knees, his heart swelling painfully in his
breast until crying out was impossible. Above him, the smoothly
featureless face of the god blurred, losing its glossy sheen and
becoming an even darker space: a black portal opening out upon a
measureless void.

Ethram-Fal writhed on the marble floor before the god of Cetriss and
found his voice. He begged for mercy in raw, shrill tones.

"Tribute," came a sourceless whisper, chill as the gulfs between the
stars. "Sacrifice."

"Yes!" screamed the cowering sorcerer. "Yes! All that you desire!"

"Tribute," came the voice again, passionless as the wind. "Sacrifice."

Pain lanced through the Stygian's consciousness and suddenly the black
sphinx was gone. Somehow there was a knotted rope around his chest and
someone was pulling cruelly upon it, tightening it until it dug into
his ribs. He clutched at the rope, drawing a cramped breath and wincing
at the stabbing sensation it produced. He looked ahead through
tear-blinded eyes and saw that the rope's end was held by the Lady
Zelandra. As he watched, she jerked brutally upon it, causing the cord
to bite even deeper into his flesh. Her face was an expressionless
mask. Ethram-Fal tore at the binding rope with both hands and cursed
her.

"Release me, damn you! You are my slave! Release me!"

The Stygian sorcerer snapped awake, prone upon the floor of his
laboratory. He was unsure if he had cried out loud.

It took him more than a moment to orient himself. He lifted his face
from the cool and dusty stone of the floor. One of his arms was
outstretched, the gray sleeve of his robe drawn back almost to his
shoulder. He sat up stiffly and looked about himself with rheumy eyes.

He was alone in the room. How long had he lain here? What had he been
doing? The muscles of his torso seemed to have been strained somehow. A
tight belt of pain throbbed intermittently about his chest. That
explained the dream, he thought, or part of it anyway. He lifted a hand
to rub his brow and noticed with a start that there was a wound on the
inside of his left forearm. He studied it in alarmed amazement.

An open gash about two inches long parted the flesh bloodlessly,
resembling nothing so much as a cut in a piece of cooked pork.
Ethram-Fal put his right hand over the wound and stood up with careful
deliberation. He leaned heavily against the table closest to him, saw
what lay upon it, and immediately remembered everything.

Lying open upon the table was his long, ebony box of Emerald Lotus
powder. Beside it, shining dully in the yellow radiance of the
light-globes, was his irregularly shaped dagger. He could recall it all
now. He had slashed the flesh of his arm in order to pour raw lotus
powder into his blood. There was no lotus in or around the wound, so he
imagined that he had collapsed immediately after cutting himself.

He felt as though he had just recovered from a long and debilitating
illness. What in Set's name had he been doing? Though groggy,
Ethram-Fal realized that he was thinking clearly for the first time in
many days. He could not remember when he had last eaten or slept. All
he had consumed was wine leavened with larger and larger portions of
Emerald Lotus. Somehow his measured intake of the drug had become a
thoughtless binge that only ended when it had endangered his life.

Ethram-Fal bandaged his forearm and thought dark thoughts.

When had his control over the lotus flagged? How long had he gone
without taking any steps toward the completion of his grand design? He
had done little but immerse himself in his newfound power when he
should have been using it productively. He needed systematic harvesting
so that he would have enough lotus to snare the wizards of Stygia into
his service. He needed to prepare more traps in case the Lady Zelandra
had found some way of locating him and came seeking vengeance.

"Thoughtless," he hissed to himself, jerking the bandage tight around
his arm.

That was all over now, he thought. He had known that the lotus was
powerful, but he had been incautious and allowed himself to indulge in
it without control. It must be used like a tool, he reasoned. He was
its master and not the other way around.

Now he must check on the health of the lotus in its chamber and muster
his mercenaries. He would discretely ask Ath how long it had been since
he had last seen him and warn the soldiers about possible intruders.
Snatching a blue velvet sack full of kaokao leaves from a nearby table,
Ethram-Fal started for the door and then came to an uncertain stop. The
ring of pain around his breast flickered into being once again,
constricting his breathing. What was it? Had he contracted some disease
while lying unconscious on the cold stone floor?

A memory came unbidden to the Stygian. It was the memory of Shakar the
Keshanian standing wild-eyed in his chambers, making threats that he
was too weak and foolish to back up, claiming that his chest was
gripped in a vise of fire.

Ethram-Fal turned and looked back upon his ebony box of lotus powder.
He wondered how long he had remained unconscious and if it was possible
that his body was already suffering for want of the drug. He squinted
at the box, rubbing at his ribs with a cold hand. Surely a little dose
would do him no harm. He need not overindulge.

"Milord!" Ath's voice came echoing hollowly down the stone corridor.
"Milord, we have cornered it!"

Footfalls thudded outside the room; then the tall mercenary pushed
through the blanket that hung over the doorway and confronted his
employer. He hesitated a moment, staring and obviously trying to find
his voice. Ethram-Fal became aware of his wrinkled and dusty robes.

"Forgive me for disturbing you," said Ath finally, "but we have
cornered the intruder in the room of the great statue. It attacked the
guards, knocking one senseless and dragging the other into the temple.
He won free, crying out so loudly that he woke us all. Come quickly, I
fear that it will try to escape and the men will be forced to slay it."

"It?" said Ethram-Fal. His captain nodded vigorously, starting to back
out the door.

"It is not a man. Come quickly and see for yourself." The soldier
waited in the doorway, holding the blanket to one side, looking to his
motionless lord.

"Go," murmured the sorcerer. "I'll follow presently."

"But…" began Ath.

"Go!" shouted Ethram-Fal, and his mercenary disappeared through the
blanket and hurried away.

The Stygian turned and walked purposefully to the table with the ebony
box. He used three fingers to scoop a mouthful of deep green power from
the box to his lips. Shudders coursed through his thin body and the
ring of pain around his chest evaporated. He threw back his head in
pleasure, sucking the last of the lotus from his fingertips. A surge of
bright energy radiated along every nerve. His mind raced, borne up on a
crest of superhuman confidence. He passed through the door and down the
corridors of the palace in a haze of ecstasy. He muttered a brief
incantation and his feet lifted up and away from the floor so that he
floated effortlessly along the hallway as quickly as a man could run. A
slack grin spread across his wizened features. The spell of levitation
usually took hours of preparation. With sudden, shocking clarity he
realized what a fool he was to doubt himself or his lotus. He was in
control and there was nothing that he could not do, no spell that he
could not conjure, no foe that he could not overcome.

As he drew near to the temple of the great sphinx, he allowed himself
to slow somewhat. Passing around a corner, the armored backs of four of
his mercenaries came into view. The men were crowded into one of the
doorways of the temple. They held naked swords and were intent upon
whatever lay before them.

"Your pardon," he said with gentle sarcasm, and the little crowd parted
in dumbstruck astonishment to let him pass.

Once inside the great chamber, he banished the spell of levitation,
allowing himself to settle down to the floor. Each of the huge,
circular room's three doors was filled with armed men and each group
held aloft a number of brightly glowing light-globes so that the
chamber was well illuminated despite its size. Only the high ceiling
remained unlit, arching up into a darkness like that of a starless
night.

Standing before the black bulk of the statue was a pale man-like form:
It stood fidgeting in front, of the flat altar set between the extended
paws of the faceless sphinx. Ethram-Fal walked a little closer,
stopped, and marveled.

It was naked and shrunken, shorter even than he, but it had the
appearance of animal strength. Tendons were wound like wires around its
stark limbs. Hunched like a baboon, its skin was the color of the
desert, hanging on its emaciated frame in reptilian folds. It twisted
long, tapering fingers together, and the dirty talons clicked one
against the other. Its brow receded sharply in bony furrows above the
lambent yellow glow of its eyes. The nose was little more than two
small pits above the lipless mouth, which opened and closed in quick,
bestial pants, revealing a pointed, serpentine tongue.

"Id Nyarlathotep," it whined.

"Holy Set!" Ethram-Fal was amazed. "It speaks!"

The soldiers at the doors stirred, murmuring to one another. The
creature flinched at this, drawing back toward the statue that loomed
behind it, as if seeking protection. It spoke again, and though it
sounded much as though a python or some other great reptile were
attempting human speech, Ethram-Fal found that he understood the words.
It was speaking an archaic version of his own tongue. It was speaking
in Old Stygian.

"You die for Nyarlathotep." Needle talons stroked the air and its eyes
burned brighter.

Ethram-Fal spoke haltingly in Old Stygian. "You make sacrifice?" It
bobbed its head, bird-like.

"Yes. Yes. Antelope. Scorpion. Man. Man best. You die for
Nyarlathotep."

"Die for that?" The sorcerer gestured at the silent statue. The
creature looked back and bobbed its head again, pressing long hands
reverently to its ridged and reptilian breast.

"Yes! Id NyarlathotepV It took a hesitant, shuffling step toward
Ethram-Fal, who seemed to pay it no heed.

"Why?"

"Live!" its thin voice rose. "So I live! So Cetriss lives! You die for
Nyarlathotep!" Quivering, it lunged toward the sorcerer, claws reaching
for his breast and the heart that beat within. A cry arose from the
massed mercenaries and they started forward, but Ethram-Fal halted the
creature by merely raising a hand. It lurched to a stop not two paces
away from the wizard, who held one palm out toward the thing. He
crooked his fingers as if gripping something transparent in the air
before him. The creature writhed in invisible bonds, held in place by
sorcery.

"This is your immortality?" cried Ethram-Fal. "O Cetriss, mighty
necromancer, did you abandon all your powers to live forever as a beast
enslaved to a statue?" The sorcerer's face twisted in transcendent rage
and his fingers clenched in a loose fist. The desert ghoul that was the
mage Cetriss snarled mindlessly as it was lifted, writhing, off the
floor.

"I followed you! I thought you a hero! You are a disgrace! You die for
Nyarlathotep!" Cetriss's body lifted farther into the air and moved
slowly backward until it hovered above the altar that lay waiting
between its god's paws.

"Tribute!" screamed Ethram-Fal. "Sacrifice!" He clenched his fist and
crushed Cetriss. The bones of the last survivor of Old Stygia broke
like dry kindling and his blood spilled down upon the altar in a dark
rain. Ethram-Fal gave his fist a last convulsive shake and let the
broken body fall. It lay, twisted in upon itself, a discarded bit of
offal that had once been one of the world's mightiest sorcerers. For
the briefest instant the Stygian thought that he saw a ghostly tendril,
a stream of pallid vapor, rising from the body of Cetriss and funneling
into the black face of his god. He blinked. It was nothing.

The Stygian turned away from the corpse in disgust and saw that his
soldiers were standing uncertainly about the doorways and regarding him
with a mixture of astonishment and fear. This pleased the sorcerer.

"Ath," he called, bringing the captain jogging forward out of the
cluster of men in the east door.

"Most impressive, milord," said Ath when he stood before his master.
The sorcerer pulled the blue velvet sack of kaokao leaves from his belt
and tossed it to Ath, who caught it neatly in one hand.

"Excellent work, Ath. Distribute these among the men. Every man should
get one. You may keep all that remain." The tall captain nodded in
grateful enthusiasm as Ethram-Fal raised his hands above his head and
addressed the rest of his mercenaries.

"I am most pleased with your efficiency. Captain Ath has a reward for
each of you. However, I wish to encourage the sentries to even greater
vigilance as I suspect that we may soon encounter other, more human,
foes. I have reason to suspect that a sorceress may essay an attack on
our palace. Capture her alive for me and I shall be greatly pleased."

The soldiers clapped naked swords against their shields and cheered in
loyalty and anticipation of their reward of kaokao leaves. When
Ethram-Fal turned away, they came forward and gathered swiftly around
Ath, hands extended for their bounty. Ath, grinning widely, passed out
the leaves as quickly as he could.

As the sorcerer reached the north doorway, a spontaneous cheer rose
behind him. When he turned to acknowledge it, the cheer swelled twice
more. He lifted a hand in a languid wave, smiling beneficently upon his
men as he basked in their approval. The men were his. The Emerald Lotus
was his. And now the mantle of Cetriss was his. How could anything stop
him now?

A shout cut through the dwindling applause. A single soldier had run
into the temple and now stood waving his arms and yelling for
attention. Ethram-Fal frowned.

"Silence! Hear me!" The soldier's hands dropped to his sides as the
gathering went silent and all eyes fell upon him.

"And where have you been, Phandoros? came a voice from among the
milling mercenaries.

"Captain Ath sent me to sentry duty when the beast was cornered," began
the man defensively. "I come to tell the master that I saw a column of
smoke to the southwest. There are intruders in the canyons."


Chapter Thirty-One
------------------

When Heng Shih emerged into the clearing, he saw that Conan was already
atop the hill. The Khitan broke into a sprint, his heavy-set form
shooting over the ground with surprising speed. Chest heaving, he
reached the little grouping of tents just in time to see the Cimmerian
kicking dirt over a small fire. Zelandra stood to one side, clutching
her teapot and scowling at Conan with exaggerated disgust. Neesa
squatted in front of one of the tents, rubbing at her brow in a gesture
at once weary and frustrated.

Conan finished burying the fire and commenced packing the soil down
upon it with the heel of his boot.

"I trust that you're satisfied now?" Zelandra's voice was so strange
that both Heng Shih and Neesa looked at her in surprise. It was thin
and rasped in her throat like a file.

"You may have given away our position for a cup of tea," said Conan
without expression.

"I need my strength," said Zelandra loudly. "I need the tea to help me
rest." She brandished the teapot to emphasize her point. Her left arm
was held rigidly across her stomach, gripping her ribs.

Conan looked up into the freshly dark evening sky. The air was
strangely still, the sky pellucid and speckled with stars except where
the swelling clouds massed to the west.

"We should move the camp," he turned to Heng Shih. "Those guards seemed
inattentive, but the smoke would have been easily seen had they but
looked around."

"Guards?" Zelandra looked from the Cimmerian to the Khitan and back
again. "You found Ethram-Fal's hiding place?"

"Yes, my lady. It is less than two leagues distant. If your smoke was
spotted, they could have an armed party here any time now."

"Heng Shih! Was it a palace?" The voice of the sorceress quavered with
desperate energy. Her bodyguard's hands passed through a number of
signs. The movements were concise and measured, his face betraying no
emotion.

"Yes!" cried Zelandra exultantly. "Just as the legends would have it!
We attack first thing tomorrow morning. I'll teach that withered fool
to trifle with me. I'll walk into his parlor and tear his bloody heart
out!"

"This is madness," said Conan flatly. "We must move the camp. We could
be set upon.at any time."

"Be silent, barbarian. The fire lasted only a moment. I must rest now.
Keep watch yourself if you are worried." Zelandra stepped forward and
set her teapot down neatly in the center of the smothered fire, as
though it might still be warmed thereon. "Awaken me if we are attacked,
and I shall smite the fools with sorcery." With that she turned about
and ducked into her tent. The flap swung shut behind her.

Conan looked to Neesa, who nodded, came to her feet and strode quickly
across the camp. She followed Zelandra into her tent and immediately
muted voices rose from it.

The Cimmerian strode to the hill's leading edge, looking down to the
canyon that led to the Palace of Cetriss and Ethram-Fal. Heng Shih
followed, watching the barbarian as he scanned the clearing below.

"Nothing yet," grumbled Conan. "We must find the swiftest route of
escape." He turned and loped back through the camp and on to the hill's
far side, where it fell away in a long, gravel slope that ended
sharply, far below, in a cliff's edge. The barbarian made his way
easily down the loose incline. Heng Shih followed more carefully. Night
had fallen and the slope was even more treacherous than it appeared.
Sand and gravel seemed to grease the hillside as it grew ever more
steep. Heng Shih staggered, his boots losing purchase as his footing
gave way. He caught himself, but not before kicking up a cloud of acrid
dust.

The slope finally petered out into a short expanse of level,
gravel-strewn stone that was sheared off a few paces away by the sharp
edge of the cliff. Conan reached the rim and peered over. There was an
almost vertical drop of thirty feet ending in a dry, sandy runoff
cluttered with rounded boulders, gleaming as pale as scattered bones in
the light of the rising moon.

"Morrigan and Macha," cursed the Cimmerian. "This is no good. We'll be
best off if we head back along the canyon that brought us here.
Listen." He turned abruptly and put a hand on Heng Shih's shoulder. "I
know little about wizardry and wish that I knew even less, but your
mistress seems in poor condition to engage Ethram-Fal in any kind of
combat, sorcerous or otherwise. You must convince her to attack by
stealth. A frontal attack would be suicide. Tomorrow I can scout along
the top of the canyon walls and try to find a way to approach the
Stygian's palace from above. If I can find a path, we might be able to
lower ourselves down through the open windows of the upper floor and
take our enemies by surprise. What do you think?"

Heng Shih lifted his hands as if to sign, then dropped them to his
sides with a sigh. He nodded.

"And can you get Zelandra to agree to move the camp?" asked the
barbarian. "Her madness could bring death to us all."

The Khitan bristled, his hands becoming fists. He shook his head
violently from side to side, scowling darkly.

"Don't be a fool. If you care for your mistress, then save her from
herself. Enough jabbering, let's…"

The Cimmerian fell suddenly silent. A frigid finger traced a line along
Heng Shih's spine.

"Did you hear something?" breathed Conan. Heng Shih shook his head and
listened. The desert's ponderous silence filled his ears like thick
cotton. The Khitan stepped carefully, turned his back to the cliff edge
and stared up the slope, alert for any sound or sign of movement.
Conan's body lowered into a fighting crouch, his eyes taking on a feral
gleam in the darkness. Heng Shih's breath slowed and thickened, seeming
to clog his lungs.

Then came the sharp scrape of a boot on stone.

Heng Shih spun around, heart in his throat, hand scrabbling for his
hilt. A black figure shot up over the rim of the cliff, springing from
the sheer face like a monstrous spider. The Khitan had his sword half
drawn before a fist like a war-hammer slammed into the side of his
head. The muscles of his neck screamed in protest as his bald skull was
wrenched to one side. Heng Shih reeled, his senses swimming, and
stumbled helplessly into Conan. The Cimmerian sidestepped his stricken
friend, who crashed to the ground, sprawling and sliding in the gravel.

Conan's sword flashed into his fist, but the black figure moved even
faster. He dove in through the Cimmerian's guard, his extended hands
locking around Conan's throat. Fingers like blunt daggers sank deeply
into flesh, choking off his breath.

"Death," rasped Gulbanda, thrusting his drawn and grimy face into
Conan's. The Cimmerian reared back and drove the fist clutching his
scimitar into the lich's forehead with all the strength of his arm. The
metal pommel crunched on bone and ripped skin the consistency of
desiccated leather. The impact tore Gulbanda's hands from Conan's
throat and sent him staggering back and away. The barbarian gave his
attacker no time to recover, lunging in with a blinding, two-handed cut
to the ribs. It was like hewing an oak. The blade thudded into
Gulbanda's torso, sank in an inch, and stuck fast.

"Crom!" swore Conan, jerking back on his sword. The blade remained
lodged in the dead man's hardened flesh. Retreating a step, the
Cimmerian tripped over the prone body of Heng Shih and staggered,
ducking low. Gulbanda's bony hands clawed the air where he had stood.
Conan stumbled sideways, still gripping the hilt of the scimitar with
both hands, and delivered a savage kick to his opponent's chest. His
boot landed with terrific force, slamming Gulbanda back off his steel
in a cloud of ochre dust. The dead man reeled backwards, recovered his
balance and came forward again without an instant's hesitation. Both
sword and dagger swung in their sheaths at Gulbanda's belt. He had
forgotten their use.

"Death," wheezed Gulbanda, coming toward the Cimmerian with his
claw-like hands held out to grasp and rend. Icy gray moonlight shone
full in his face as cracked lips peeled back from broken teeth and a
pale scar parted the filthy thatch of beard.

Recognition and horror drove a frigid spike through Conan's belly. His
heel slipped on stone and the Cimmerian realized that he was standing
on the rim of the precipice. He flourished the scimitar in a
moon-glittering figure eight, trying to make Gulbanda keep his
distance. But the dead man did not fear his steel. He drew up short a
moment, then dove headlong for the barbarian's throat.

Conan braced his feet and lashed the scimitar from right to left in a
brutal, vertical cut that struck Gulbanda's outstretched left arm at
the elbow. Fibrous flesh and dried bone split under the impact. The
severed limb flew from its bloodless stump even as the dead man's body
slammed into Conan's, knocking him backward and sending both combatants
hurtling over the edge of the cliff.

There was a moment of sick vertigo as the pair dropped into darkness;
then Conan twisted in midair, shoving Gulbanda out and away from him.
The barbarian's falling body scraped against the cliff face in a small
explosion of dirt and gravel. He clawed frantically at the wall,
striving to slow his fall, struck the floor of the dry wash on his
side, and blacked out.

There was an indeterminate time of darkness and silence during which
Conan's consciousness struggled to rise, like a swimmer trapped beneath
the surface of a black lake. At some point came the distant and
dream-like sound of feminine screams, but they faded back into the
heavy silence and it was as if they had never been.

The Cimmerian sat up carefully, sand spilling from his hair. He had
landed in the sculpted sand of the dry wash, which had cushioned the
impact somewhat. His ribs ached abominably and his head spun. The
scimitar lay at the base of the cliff, a crescent of silver in the gray
rubble. Conan lunged for it, grasped it, and stood up unsteadily.
Standing in the shadow of the cliff, he watched the world reel. He
shook his head in a leonine fashion, trying to clear it. Though it felt
as if every inch of his body had been bruised by hammers, he seemed to
have suffered no serious injury.

Gulbanda had fallen only a few paces away. He lay on his back, bent and
broken over a small boulder. He writhed weakly but ceaselessly, like an
insect on a pin. Bent backwards almost double over the boulder that had
snapped his spine, his remaining hand clawed listlessly at the air.

Conan's senses cleared and he stepped forward, gazing in fearful awe at
his deathless adversary. Something small crawled from the shadow of the
boulder and into the silvery moonlight. Gulbanda's severed left hand
groped spider-like across the ground, dragging the dead weight of its
forearm behind it. A surge of fresh horror lifted the hair on the back
of the Cimmerian's neck. The hand moved blindly away from Gulbanda's
helpless body. Conan bent forward and plucked the dagger from the dingy
sheath on his foe's girdle. Then he took two quick steps forward, knelt
and drove the blade through the thing's wrist, pinning the grisly limb
to the earth. The pallid fingers clenched and unclenched in the sand.

"Death," hissed a voice, little more than a feeble whisper, yet as cold
and piercing as an arctic blast. "Death."

Conan straightened. The breeze picked up, strangely warm, blowing his
dark mane back from his face. He looked down upon the prone and broken
form of Gulbanda of Shem.

"Death," sighed the dead man.

"Certainly," said Conan and, lifting the scimitar, hewed off Gulbanda's
head. The body jerked and slowed, but never ceased its restless
movement. Gulbanda's skull struck the packed sand and rolled behind the
boulder. The barbarian turned away and sheathed his sword in one smooth
motion. He strode to the base of the cliff and began, with swift and
certain movements, to climb it.

Behind him, in the shadow of the boulder, Gulbanda's head lay blinking
up at the cold stars, lips twisting soundlessly as he called for a
death that would not come.


Chapter Thirty-Two
------------------

Conan came over the rim of the cliff in a low crouch. He scanned the
long slope rising before him. After assuring himself that there was no
one about, he looked to the sky, wondering how long he had lain
senseless at the base of the cliff. The night sky was already half
obscured by the dense clouds unfurling from the west. The stars wavered
and disappeared before their leading edge as they raced across the
heavens. An unnaturally warm breeze rolled through the canyons, growing
slowly in strength as it moaned among the crags.

The Cimmerian dropped to one knee beside the sprawled form of Heng
Shih. The Khitan lay facedown, his bulky body partially covered by dirt
and gravel. Conan gave him a firm shake and Heng Shih stirred feebly,
then sat up. He looked about himself wildly, eyes wide with panicked
surmise.

"By Ymir," rambled the barbarian. "And you said that I had a hard
head."

The Khitan ran a wide hand over the side of his shaven skull, touching
gingerly above his left ear, where the skin was already beginning to
swell and discolor. He stood up slowly, shaking the dirt from his
clothing. He fixed his gaze upon Conan.

"That was an old friend of Shakar the Keshanian, come back to settle a
score," said Conan, answering the unspoken query.

Heng Shih frowned uncertainly, setting a hand upon his hilt.

"Don't worry about him. He's done. Let's check the camp. I fear the
worst." The Cimmerian turned suddenly and started up the treacherous
slope with long, quick strides. The Khitan kept pace, though he fought
off waves of dizziness with every step. The wind had picked up,
throwing dust into their eyes and striving with invisible hands to
thrust them back down the incline.

The camp was deserted.

Heng Shih stumbled into the center of the encampment, staring about
with grim desperation, dismay apparent in his every movement. All three
of the tents were empty and one had collapsed. Its crumpled fabric
rippled and flapped forlornly with each fresh gust. The eroded stone of
the hilltop showed no sign of struggle, but Conan pointed wordlessly to
where the hill dropped away into the clearing. Two pale forms lay still
in the darkness there. Heng Shih ran haltingly toward them, then
slowed, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw that they were not the
bodies of Neesa and the Lady Zelandra.

The corpses of two Stygian mercenaries lay not ten paces apart. The
nearest of the pair had a charred blot for a face. Curls of steam rose
from empty, blackened eye sockets and were torn away by the wind. The
second soldier gripped with both hands the hilt of the dagger that had
pierced his throat.

Heng Shih stared down at the dead men, then noticed that Conan had
knelt beside the fallen tent. The Cimmerian was examining a bit of
cloth that bore dark stains. He stood and held it out to the Khitan.
The wind toyed with the discolored fabric, tossing it about, but Heng
Shih could see that it was the bloodstained remnants of Zelandra's
turban.

He walked stiffly to Conan and tore the scrap from the barbarian's
grasp. His face hardened into a mask of stone. The blood on the fabric
had not yet congealed, and it came away on his fingers. He let the
remains of the turban fall from his hands. The wind whipped the
tattered cloth away into the night and the growing storm.

Heng Shih unsheathed his scimitar and started down the hill toward the
narrow canyon that led to the Palace of Cetriss.

"Hold!" Conan's voice rang out above the wind like the clangor of steel
on steel. "Don't be a fool."

Heng Shih drew to a halt, his back to the Cimmerian, then turned slowly
to face him. The Khitan's eyes held a bleakness that was terrible to
behold. He placed his right hand on the center of his broad breast, and
then held it out in the direction of Ethram-Fal's lair.

"Yes," said the barbarian, "I understand." He bent over, rummaging in
the crumpled remains of the fallen tent, and came up with a jug of
wine. He plucked out the cork with his teeth, spat it away and offered
the bottle to Heng Shih.

"Have a drink and heed me well. Your mistress is alive, else the
Stygians would have left her here as they did the bodies of their
comrades. If you walk into their stronghold you'll be butchered like a
sheep and leave Zelandra alive in the hands of the Stygian wizard. Is
that what you want?"

The Khitan shook his head painfully, shoulders slumping as the cruel
tension wracking his body loosened its grasp.

"I thought not. Now, look to the sky. This is no ordinary storm that
comes upon us, but a sandstorm out of hell itself. I've seen a few in
my time on the desert, but never one that filled the heavens like this
one. The damn thing probably sprang up around Harakht and has been
growing larger over every league it's traveled. It should give us fine
cover."

Conan thrust the wine at Heng Shih, who finally accepted it. The
Cimmerian ducked into one of the two standing tents, leaving the big
Khitan standing alone with the bottle. He squinted at it, took a sip
and cast it aside. The crockery shattered on stone. He had no time for
such things.

The barbarian emerged from the tent carrying his leather • helmet, a
coil of rope, and two of Neesa's silk shirts. As Heng Shih watched,
Conan donned the helmet, looped the rope over a brawny shoulder, then
tossed one of the shirts to him. The Khitan caught it before the wind
snatched the garment away, and stared at it without comprehension.

"We'll do as I said earlier. I'll lead us across the canyon tops to the
sorcerer's fortress. The storm will not make it any easier for us, but
it is our only real chance. Tie the shirt around your head so that it
covers your mouth and nose. Leave a thin space to see through. It will
provide a little protection from the sand."

Heng Shih stood in place lifelessly, glancing from the shirt in his
hands to the place where the ragged tops of the canyon walls met the
lowering belly of the storm. The wind whipped through the camp and
rushed away into darkness.

"Come on," said Conan, knotting the shirt at the base of his bull neck.

Heng Shih nodded, then began wrapping the silken shirt around his head.


Chapter Thirty-Three
--------------------

The moon's last light was quenched before rolling clouds. The wind
raged past the climbers, bearing a scourge of sand that tore at their
clothing and abraded their exposed skin. Despite the absent moon, an
ethereal yellow half-light, vaporous and sickly, illuminated the
storm-wracked sky. Heng Shih could just make out the form of Conan
silhouetted against it as the Cimmerian drew himself up the irregular
stone wall.

Heng Shih stood upon a narrow ledge, embracing the cliff face beneath
the climbing barbarian. He scarcely dared move in the ceaseless wind.
Twenty feet below lay a scattered carpet of sharp boulders. The Khitan
pressed his forehead against the hard stone, still warm from the sun's
rays, waiting for Conan to reach safety and lower the rope.

They had proceeded in this fashion for hours. Heng Shih had entertained
hopes that the tops of the canyons would be fairly level, at least
allowing for occasional expanses of easy travel. It was not so. The
upper portions of the canyon walls broke into a wildly uneven
collection of jagged rock formations. They hadn't traveled forward as
far as they climbed up and down over the canyon walls.

Conan had chosen an initial approach that took them across the canyon
rim at its lowest point, and then dropped them into a gorge packed with
huge boulders. Finding a path out of that jumble seemed to have taken
half the night. From there they had made their way over a series of
steep ridges. Nowhere did the stone afford much in the way of hand or
footholds. The two men had developed a pattern: Conan climbed ahead,
often disappearing entirely into the swirling sand; then the rope would
come trailing down out of the yellow-tinged darkness, and Heng Shih
would clamber up its length.

The far side of each ridge was generally shorter and less steep than
its leading edge, as the canyons they flanked grew deeper and drew
farther back into the highlands. Inevitably, the men would find
themselves at the base of another almost sheer wall and be forced to
climb once again. Heng Shih's pride goaded him to keep pace with Conan,
but he soon discovered that his skill in scaling stone was no match for
a Cimmerian hillman's.

Now the Khitan stood panting on his little ledge and waited for the
rope. He blinked through the slender gap in sand-crusted silk. His
lungs fought for air and his legs throbbed from exertion. The muscles
around each knee were defined in every fiber by pain. Steeling himself,
he thought of Zelandra and looked up for the rope. Conan had long since
vanished into the whirling sandstorm above.

Heng Shih was all but blinded, but when he shifted position against the
rock face to ease his cramping knees, his hand brushed against
something. It was the rope. Visibility had grown so poor that it had
fallen beside him without even being noticed. The Khitan seized the
rope, set his teeth, and began to climb.

As he approached the summit, the huge form of the Cimmerian, loomed
above him, etched against the tawny darkness of the sky. Heng Shih
dragged himself over the rim, grateful that the stone was moderately
level. Conan bent over him and yelled above the storm.

"Are you all right?"

The Khitan nodded and stood, resisting an impulse to check the bandages
wrapped around his midsection beneath his clothing. The wound throbbed
dully from strain, but he did not think he had reopened it.

The pair stood between two natural pillars of crooked and weathered
stone that thrust skyward like the broken, skeletal fingers of some
buried giant. Heng Shih leaned his weight against the nearest and
stared doggedly ahead, trying to get some idea of the nature of the
next section of terrain. He felt confident the canyon they had followed
to the Palace of Cetriss was located somewhere to their right, and that
the palace itself lay more or less in front of them. He couldn't hazard
a guess as to how much farther they had to travel.

"Look!" shouted Conan, his voice half smothered by the roar of the
wind. "The palace!" The barbarian extended a hand, pointing above and
ahead of them. Heng Shih tried to stare through the blowing dust.

A dark mass, huge and angular, faded in and out of view in the weird
yellow half-light. It seemed less than a league away, yet the space
between the looming phantom and the two men was a sand-lashed void that
made estimations of distance impossible.

"We'll go down here, along that ledge, and then up atop the palace.
We're almost there." Conan wrapped the rope in coils around his brawny
arm while Heng Shih peered skeptically ahead, trying to identify the
features that the Cimmerian had described. He abandoned his efforts
when Conan moved forward, off the level top of the ridge, and down its
uneven rear slope. The Khitan followed, keeping his comrade's broad
back in view while stepping carefully on the treacherous stone.

The slope bottomed out into a narrow crevasse packed with broken slabs
of fallen rock. Conan descended, leaping nimbly from one boulder to the
next, avoiding the gaps and irregularities that could trap and break an
ankle or even a leg. He made his way .along the crevasse floor to their
right, with Heng Shih keeping close through sheer force of will.

The narrow passage was abruptly sheared off. The crevasse opened out
from a smoothly vertical stone wall into a vast, open expanse seething
with windblown sand. Conan crouched on a boulder at the opening's rim,
looking down. Heng Shih caught up and stood gasping at his side.

"Below is the courtyard we saw when scouting the canyon!" bellowed
Conan. "With luck, that thin ledge running along the courtyard wall
will take us to a point where we can scale the palace roof."

The open space of the courtyard was a raging maelstrom of shrieking
wind. Airborne sand and dust made it impossible to see more than a few
paces ahead. One look down inspired a strange vertigo. The courtyard's
floor might have been thirty feet down or three hundred. Heng Shih
could just make out the slender ledge that Conan had indicated. It
began six feet from, and six feet below, the opening in which they
stood. The natural pathway stretched along the courtyard wall, leading
up into the storm. Its width varied, but seemed to afford space enough
to walk upon. The Khitan's stomach lurched as he realized that he and
his companion would have to jump from the crevasse mouth along the
courtyard wall to reach the stone path. The ledge abruptly appeared
much narrower to his eyes.

The barbarian set his feet, bent his knees, and then leapt out into
open air. He landed cat-like upon the ledge. The Cimmerian put his back
to the rock face and walked along the shelf with seeming ease, quickly
disappearing from sight.

Heng Shih followed with intense deliberation, perching carefully on the
boulder at the edge. He did not look down. It wasn't really much of a
leap, he reasoned. A one-legged man could do it if the ground were
level. Heng Shih took a deep breath and jumped. He lit on a ledge, but
overestimated his leap and struck the canyon wall with force enough to
rebound slightly. His hands scrabbled desperately on the stone,
miraculously finding a handhold; and seizing it, pulling himself back
in tight against the wall.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears, for a moment drowning out the
sound of the wind. He allowed himself no time to recover, or to think
on how he stood unsteadily upon a crumbling bit of stone suspended
above a howling abyss. He proceeded along the precarious shelf,
following Conan.

The ledge proved easy enough to negotiate for the first twenty or
thirty paces; then it narrowed and became a rising series of sharp and
irregular steps. Heng Shih half stumbled on the first, stopped to slap
the dust from his improvised mask, and then began to climb. At the
fifth step the path narrowed to nothing, disappearing into the cliff
face. Heng Shih clung to the rock and looked in all directions. The
courtyard's natural wall continued ahead, but without the benefit of
the slightest foothold. The stone shone smooth as polished crystal.

Where was Conan? The thought battered the Khitan with the force of a
blow. He peered frantically into the roiling storm below. Had the
Cimmerian fallen? What could he do now?

Something struck him atop the head. He recoiled involuntarily, jerking
backwards so that he almost fell from the ledge. His right hand clawed
at the air and caught the rope.

Conan was above him. Heng Shih gripped the line and stared up along the
cliff face to where it vanished into lashing clouds of grit. The rock
was almost featurelessly smooth, devoid of all but the tiniest
irregularities. These had apparently sufficed. Conan had scaled the
wall to its summit.

Heng Shih gave the rope a yank. It held fast. With repeated grunting
and effort, the Khitan went hand-over-hand up the rope. He braced his
feet and knees upon the slippery rock face when he could, but depended
on the strength of his upper body to draw him to safety. The muscles of
his shoulders quivered with effort, and he found himself slowing. Dust
and sweat stung his eyes. His boots slid over stone, striving for
purchase and finding none. Then the rope began to rise of its own
accord, reeling him in like an ungainly fish until he was drawn over
the edge of the cliff. Heng Shih scrambled onto level ground, released
the rope, and stood with his hands on his knees, breathing deeply.

Conan of Cimmeria unwound the rope from his fists, clapped the Khitan
on the back, and unleashed a guffaw audible even above the wind.

"Thought you'd lost me, eh? It takes more than a bit of climbing to
stop a Cimmerian. Come, we're almost there."

The canyon wall continued only another dozen paces before it reached
the courtyard's corner and angled sharply inward to form the back wall
of the natural cul-de-sac. They had climbed to the far corner of the
courtyard and now stood a mere spear's cast from the Palace of Cetriss.
The Khitan found that he could discern the massive pillars of the
palace's facade, flickering in and out of visibility between veils of
windblown sand. Its outlines shifted, giving it the appearance of a
sinister mirage created by the ferocious storm.

The footing was blessedly even. Conan and Heng Shih climbed a low ridge
of weathered stone, and passed beyond the courtyard. The dark and
shadowy mass that they had seen through the storm now rose directly
before them. Their harrowing climb had brought them up beside the
palace roof. The uppermost portion of the Palace of Cetriss was
fashioned from a section of canyon that rose in a promontory, towering
above all around it. The palace's flank lifted from the stone at their
feet as sharply as a man-made wall sprang from a city's cobbled
sidewalk. Gazing up its face almost twenty feet to the tortured sky,
Heng Shih found himself wishing that he could see so much as a single
star. Conan walked beside the wall, trailing the fingers of one hand
along it. He turned to the Khitan, slapping his palm on the wall and
shouting above the gusts.

"It's been worked. Leveled and sanded. Long ago."

Heng Shih nodded that he understood, wondering if this meant the
Cimmerian would be unable to scale it. They walked for a few more
moments, passing over almost-level stone, with Conan staring
ceaselessly up at the wall. At length he stopped, pointing high to a
single fissure marring the smooth surface. As Heng Shih looked on, the
Cimmerian took several steps back, then ran forward and leapt up at the
slender split in the stone wall. His body seemed to fly into place and
stick, like a dagger hurled into soft wood. Steely fingers dug into the
narrow gap, supporting the full weight of his powerful frame. He
writhed, clawing his way up the wall with his fingertips alone. After
an instant of breathless struggle, his hands found purchase atop the
wall. Then his legs swung up and he was over the top, out of sight.

Heng Shih stood with his hands on his hips and shook his head. He
reflected upon how reluctant he had been to allow the barbarian to
accompany Lady Zelandra's expedition. He grimaced, tugged the wrapped
silk away from his lips, and spat downwind. The rope came tumbling down
the wall to him. He flexed his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, and
climbed.

The roof of the Palace of Cetriss was as large as the courtyard,
rectangular, and bounded by a low wall that reached to a man's hip. It
was as level as a floor beneath their feet and patterned with whirling
eddies of sand. In its center lay a wooden board as thick and heavy as
a tavern's tabletop. Conan knelt beside this anomaly and, as Heng Shih
watched nervously, pressed an ear to the rough wood. He rose quickly
and padded to the Khitan's side.

"An entrance," he explained. "Probably guarded. Look here." The
barbarian went to one knee again, pointing out a collection of odd
items in the blowing sand of the rooftop. Five black candles were set
in congealed pools of their own melted wax. Each was positioned at one
of the five points of a large star inscribed upon the roof's surface.
Strange symbols and traceries stained the stone on all sides of the
great pentagram.

"I'll wager this is where the Stygian cast forth his image to pester
your mistress," said Conan.

The mention of Zelandra drove a surge of fresh energy through Heng
Shih's tired body. He jogged to the front of the palace, motioning for
Conan to follow. Gripping the carved rim of the low wall, the Khitan
leaned over the courtyard and peered below. The flattened-facade above
the great pillars stretched down about ten feet. Below that he could
make out the protruding cornice of one of the pillars. Conan moved
toward the facade's center, where another slim fissure split the low
wall, and began unspooling the rope.

"We'll go down here. We want to swing in between the pillars."

Heng Shih watched as the Cimmerian tied a heavy knot in the rope's
tail. Conan stood on the cord and wrenched upon it to tighten the knot.
Then he fit the rope into the fissure, Wedging the knot flat against
the inside of the wall and carelessly tossing the remainder over into
the courtyard to dangle in space.

"It should hold, unless our weight tears the knot loose or the stone
cuts the rope." Conan stretched like a lazy tiger, seemingly confident
and unconcerned. Heng Shih swallowed heavily.

"I'll go first," said the barbarian as he straddled the wall and
grasped the line. With a lithe twist, Conan rolled over the edge and
began to lower himself down the rope. Sandy gusts tore at him, trying
to pluck him loose from the wall and swing his body like a pendulum.
The Cimmerian fought the wind, staying in close to the carved stone
face. When Conan reached the base of the facade, he planted the soles
of his boots against the wall, kicked back, and slid down the rope.
Then he swung out of sight beneath the facade and between the pillars.

The skin between the Khitan's shoulder blades tingled as the rope
stayed taut and Conan failed to reappear. After a long moment the rope
went slack and trailed back into view, flailing loosely in the
relentless wind. Heng Shih briefly considered that Conan might have
fallen, or worse, swung right into a room full of waiting soldiers.
Then he seized the rope and drew himself over the wall.

He slid too quickly down over the facade; its ancient, faded
inscriptions rasped his knees and elbows. The rope felt thin and
inadequate in his fists. Heng Shih slipped, dropping below the facade
and dangling between two of the pillars, which loomed to either side
like huge and shadowy sentries. The wind spun him on the rope, swinging
him to and fro helplessly. The black square of an open window beckoned
to Heng Shih, recessed beneath the overhanging facade less than ten
feet away. Hurling his legs forcibly out and away from the palace wall,
the Khitan swung himself under the overhang and up to the window.
Deftly hooking a boot over the sill, he pulled himself toward safety.
When one fist released the rope and reached for the window's edge, a
strong hand thrust out to catch him and drag him in. Heng Shih tumbled
into a darkened room, landing on his much-abused knees. Conan stood
beside him, his silken mask discarded, a fierce white grin creasing his
hard countenance. His scimitar shone naked in his fist. Heng Shih stood
and drew his own sword. He and the Cimmerian were inside the Palace of
Cetriss.


Chapter Thirty-Four
-------------------

The armored soldier thrust Neesa through the portal and into the huge
stone room. She turned, snarling in hot-eyed defiance and straining at
the chains that clasped her hands behind her back. Zelandra, similarly
bound, stumbled against the scribe and staggered for balance. A lance
of poignant pain thrust through Neesa, undercutting her rage with
sorrow. Zelandra was moving like an aged and infirm crone.

"Are you all right, milady?" she asked, trying to sound strong and
unafraid. The soldiers pushed into the room behind the women,
surrounding them.

"You were told to stay silent. Obey or I'll slice out your tongue,"
said the Stygian who had shoved her. He thumbed the edge of his
shortsword with crude suggestion.

The tallest of the soldiers spoke in a voice of calm authority. "Easy,
Daphrah. The master wants them in one piece."

"Erlik's fangs," cursed the one called Daphrah. "This one threw a
dagger into Teh-Harpa's throat as neat as you please. I hope the master
feeds them to the lotus."

Wrenching her gaze from the raw hatred in the eyes of Daphrah, Neesa
looked around the room. It was massively vaulted and circular, lighted
by a collection of strange globes set around the walls. These
crystalline spheres appeared to hold only water and some sort of leafy
plant, yet they shone with strong yellow light. The center of the room
was dominated by a statue the size of a small house. It was a carven
sphinx of the sort occasionally seen in Stygia, but it was
exceptionally large, fashioned of glossy black stone, and had no facial
features. Between its paws lay a flat slab of similar black stone.
Gazing at the altar and its faceless idol, Neesa felt her blood slow
and grow cold. What manner of men worshipped such a god?

The women were herded into the room's center until they stood beneath
the overhanging oval of the statue's blank visage. Neesa retreated
before the advancing mercenaries, halting when she backed into the
altar slab. She sat upon it defiantly, curling her lips in a sneer of
disdain. Zelandra shuffled to her side, head bent. The lady's
silver-threaded hair was bloodied at the crown by the blow of a sword
hilt. A cruel leather gag had been fastened about her head to prevent
her from casting any spells. Neesa doubted that Zelandra would have
been able to work any sorcery even without the gag. Her mistress,
seemed taxed by merely standing upright.

Neesa clenched her eyes shut. She should have physically fought
Zelandra to keep her from building the fire.

The camp should have been moved immediately, just as Conan had said.
They had been taken so swiftly. It seemed only a moment ago that she
was arguing with Zelandra inside the tent. Her mistress had been so
adamant about being safe and only needing some rest, all the while
clinging with hands like gnarled talons to that damned silver box. Then
there were voices outside the tent, and even Zelandra, for all her
illness, could tell that they were not the voices of Conan and Heng
Shih. The women burst out of the tent together, and there were Stygian
soldiers coming over the rim of the hill. Neesa had taken the foremost
with her nape-dagger and Zelandra had just enough time to bark out a
single spell. She sent an incandescent bolt of fiery green light from
the palm of her hand into the horrified face of the second Stygian.
Then the soldiers were upon them. Zelandra had clawed at her silver
box, trying to unwrap it, until the pommel of a sword dashed her turban
from her head and sent her sprawling. Neesa drew another dagger,
screaming out for Conan and Heng Shih, not quite able to believe that
they weren't there. The warriors had encircled her, obviously unwilling
to do harm unless it was necessary and wary of the knife she held ready
to throw. The blade of a shortsword held to the throat of the stunned
Zelandra was sufficient threat to get her to toss her dagger aside.
Then she had been struck down by the mailed fist of the one called
Daphrah. The mercenaries had milled about for a short time, looking for
her companions, whom they shortly determined had fled. Satisfied that
they had captured the sorceress that Ethram-Fal desired, and fearful of
the coming storm, the soldiers escorted their captives back along the
canyon. En route, the sandstorm fell upon them, railing and screaming
in the narrow passage. Neesa had faced it numbly. Her thoughts seemed
somehow paralyzed by the fact that Conan and Heng Shih had failed to
come to her aid.

Even the marvelous facade of the Palace of Cetriss, wreathed in
swirling, windblown dust, had made little impression upon her. The
labyrinthine corridors within led them through empty rooms as silent as
sepulchers, through a great hall full of neatly arranged cots, and
finally to this fearful temple.

Now they waited for the one who ruled here.

Zelandra gave a low moan, grasping at her belt. Dangling leather thongs
showed where the silver casket had been cut away. The tall, hawk-faced
captain held the box in one hand. He observed Zelandra's distress
dispassionately, glancing from her mindlessly grasping hands to the box
in his grasp. Rage and helplessness warred in Neesa's breast until it
felt as though her heart would be torn asunder.

Footfalls came from the far door. The clustered crowd of mercenaries
parted, allowing a small, gray-robed figure to approach. The man was
shorter than Neesa and hunched slightly, his head concealed beneath the
hood of his robe. His sandaled feet slapped smartly on the smooth stone
floor. Drawing to a stop before the women, he considered them for a
moment, then crossed his arms over his narrow chest.

"Ah, Zelandra," came a soft voice from within the hood. It held pity
and amusement in equal measures. "Your powers of endurance are nothing
less than remarkable. I was a fool to underestimate you. But you were
the greater fool to underestimate my Emerald Lotus."

Zelandra did not respond, but stared sightlessly forward, one arm
crooked about her ribs and the other clutching uselessly at the place
on her belt where the box of Emerald Lotus had once hung.

"Ath," called the wizard imperiously. "Loose the lady's companion from
her bonds and affix her to the altar."

The tall soldier advanced as commanded, passing Zelandra's silver box
to a comrade, and producing a key from within his polished breastplate.

Terror seized Neesa by the throat, sending a shuddering palsy down
through her belly. She crouched and showed her teeth, clenching her
fists to fight. The captain drew to a stop, his stern face betraying no
emotion.

"Now, now," said the robed man gently. "Don't be a fool. You may still
survive unscathed. All depends upon your mistress. It will be much the
worse for you if you struggle. Think of what might befall you here if
you displease me. Imagine."

Neesa went limp, half swooning as Ath unfastened her bonds. The captain
put a hand beneath each of her arms and hoisted her easily up onto the
altar. She went unresisting, clenching her eyes closed as he used
lengths of rawhide to tie wrists and ankles to the black metal rings
set in each of the altar's four corners.

"Very good," said the robed man, then louder: "Now, men, leave me. Be
vigilant. These two may have friends. Hep-Kahl, give her box to me.
Ath, you may stay."

Subdued grumbles of disappointment came to Neesa's ears. All of her
senses seemed heightened to an unendurable pitch. The altar felt much
colder against her spine than it should have. She lifted her head and
saw the soldiers filtering out the doors. The last stragglers looked
behind themselves wistfully.

"Ath, remove the lady's gag. Do not worry, I fear that she is beyond
any wizardry at this point."

Neesa kept her head raised to watch even as the muscles of her neck
began to ache dully. The gag fell away from Zelandra's mouth, though
she seemed to take no notice. Her eyes were dull, staring at nothing.
The tall warrior stepped back uneasily, one hand on the hilt of his
heavy, northern broadsword.

The sorcerer lifted his hands and lowered the hood. His countenance
wrung an involuntary gasp from Neesa. The bulging brow and shrunken jaw
marked Ethram-Fal as a man who would never be called handsome, but the
ravages of the Emerald Lotus had transformed him into something that
could scarcely be called human. Tufts of mouse-brown hair stood out
from his mottled scalp. His complexion had faded from the dusky tone of
a healthy Stygian to a grayish pallor better suited to a corpse. The
wasted flesh of his face bore an infinitude of tiny wrinkles, giving
him the appearance of an animated mummy. The whites of his eyes shone
pale green.

"Now, lady, we have so much to discuss."

Zelandra might have been deaf. She stood like a sleepwalker, unaware of
the grim tableau that surrounded her.

"Ah, I know what you need," said Ethram-Fal happily. "Look here,
milady." With a flourish, he thrust the silver box aloft. Zelandra's
eyes focused suddenly, locking onto the gleaming casket.

"Come, a few grains should make you more communicative." He opened the
box and held it so that she could see the contents. Zelandra took a
hesitant, dragging step forward. Her arms hung lax at her sides.

"Yes, that's very good. You want to feel better, don't you?"

Zelandra took three pained steps toward the Stygian and stretched out
her hands blindly.

"So little left," mused Ethram-Fal. "Even so, you shall get only a
taste." He used two fingers to scoop a bit of the deep green powder out
of the box, and then extended his hand to the Lady Zelandra.

"There will be more if we can reach an agreement. All that you like, in
fact."

The sorcerer caught his breath as Zelandra took two more steps toward
him, grasped his wrist with both hands, and began to lick the Emerald
Lotus from his proffered fingers.

Ethram-Fal threw back his head and laughed like a fiend out of hell.


Chapter Thirty-Five
-------------------

The chamber was square, hewn directly from the canyon wall, and without
any furnishings. It was obvious that it had not been occupied, or
perhaps even visited, for a very long time. A small, hardened drift of
sand stretched across the floor, the accumulation of ages. On the far
wall a single portal opened on darkness. The storm raged unabated
outside, scouring the window frame with whips of sand.

The two warriors leaned against the wall to either side of the window,
resting a moment and taking stock of their situation. The only sound
was that of the wind. Conan fumbled beneath his cloak, pulling into
view a small, leather backpack that Heng Shih hadn't seen. The
Cimmerian opened it and produced a wineskin.

"Here. It is not the finest vintage, and watered besides, but I'll
wager that you won't cast it aside now," said the barbarian. Wearing a
faintly sheepish expression, Heng Shin took the wineskin. The first
swallow seemed to slice through the layer of dust coating his throat.
The second filled his mouth with rich flavor. The wine may have been
second-rate and watered, but he could not remember ever appreciating a
drink so thoroughly. After they both drank their fill, the skin was
returned to the backpack and the men advanced as one to the doorway.

Outside the room was an empty, lightless corridor leading away to both
left and right. Conan's eyes adjusted to the darkness at once, and he
perceived that vacant doorways flanked the one from which they emerged.
A moment's exploration revealed that both of these rooms had windows
opening out onto the pillared facade, and were identical to the one
that had admitted them to the palace. To either side, beyond the rooms,
the corridor turned inward and tunneled deeper into the rock.

Conan chose the hallway to the right. Once they rounded the corner, the
sound of the storm dwindled to a distant whispering and the air grew
thick and stale. The stagnant smell of ancient dust filled their
nostrils.

The corridor continued in gloom, uninterrupted for a space, then split
in a three-way intersection. Ahead, and to the left, the hall went on
as before, with no sign of light or another doorway. To their right a
spiral stairway coiled downward. A vague yellow glow, faint as a vapor,
shone along the stairwell's curving wall.

Conan thrust down with the sickle blade of his scimitar. The Khitan
nodded, and the two stole down the stair. Conan led the way, keeping
his back to the wall and his sword extended before him. The stairs
opened out onto the second floor, where the two men hesitated. The
Cimmerian crouched, leaning into the hallway, but all was darkness and
silence. The phantom glow of light came from farther below. He withdrew
and they continued.

The stairwell ended by opening out upon a broad hall that led away to
the left and right. A single light, set in a niche carved into the
wall, filled the long chamber with a soft illumination. It was not a
torch. The light looked like nothing that Conan had ever seen before.
It appeared to be a hollow ball of glass containing water and a sprig
of some leafy plant. The whole gave off a steady, not unpleasant, glow.
The barbarian noted its oddity, then gave it no further thought. Death
stalked these corridors and would claim the unwary.

To Conan's right, the hall extended fifteen paces before ending in
another open doorway. To his left, the corridor reached a similar
length to a similar portal, but this one was covered by a hanging
blanket of coarse brown cloth. Faint sounds, echoing and
indistinguishable, came from beyond the fabric barrier, which twitched
gently, as if touched by a gentle breeze.

Conan came out of the stairwell and padded stealthily toward the
covered doorway. His boots made no sound on the stone floor. Heng Shih
began to follow about four paces behind, but was struck into immobility
when the Cimmerian suddenly thrust an open palm toward him.

A voice spoke in Stygian, startlingly loud in the pervasive silence.
For a terrible instant Conan and Heng Shih both stood stock-still; then
the hanging over the doorway rippled and was thrust aside. Two men in
bright mail pushed into view. Lights bobbed, and flared behind them.

Conan had a split second of indecision. It was shattered by the rising
voices of an unknown number of men, coming up behind the two that now
stood, goggling, in the doorway. The Cimmerian lunged across the
hallway, snatched the light-globe from its niche, spun and ran straight
at Heng Shih. The Khitan took an involuntary step backward.

"Run, damn it!" The barbarian shoved his comrade back into the
stairwell as cries of alarm rang out behind them.

The sound of boots on stone filled the stairwell with rebounding
echoes. Conan took the steps three at a time, easily driving past the
laboring Khitan. At the second level he slid to a halt, bent, and
rolled the light-globe down the darkened hallway to the north.
Yellow-white light blazed up eerily, splashing the walls with unnatural
radiance as the sorcerous torch rolled swiftly away, scarcely bouncing
on the smooth stone floor. Conan didn't stop to watch, but ran past the
darkened second level and continued up to the third, bursting into the
dim hallway at the three-way intersection with the shouts of his
pursuers loud in his ears. Heng Shih followed the Cimmerian as he
turned right, sprinting into the inner reaches of the palace's third
floor.

They ran through another intersection and passed an open doorway on the
right, but Conan did not even slow his pace. Then there was a curtained
opening on the left and the barbarian was shoving the fabric aside,
charging into the darkness beyond. Heng Shih was at his heels, sliding
to a stop in complete blackness as Conan let the blanket fall across
the doorway. They pressed their backs to the wall on either side of the
door, ready to cut down any who might follow them. Heng Shih strove to
muffle his gasps for breath and slow the rapid hammering of his heart.

Voices and footsteps came to them from an uncertain distance, fading
and blurring together. Heng Shih wiped sweat from his pate with the
dirty sleeve of his golden kimono. Across from him, Conan stood with
his scimitar at the ready, as charged with potential energy as a
leopard poised to spring.

The sounds of pursuit dwindled and disappeared. Conan grinned savagely,
invisible in the gloom, and lowered his blade. His steel clinked softly
against something on the wall. Turning, the barbarian reached out. His
hand encountered something smooth and spherical sitting in a niche in
the wall. When his fingers closed upon and lifted it, a dull pulse of
light came from the thing. It was a light-globe like the one he had
seized in the hall below. When he picked the thing up, the water within
it rolled about and the light came more steadily. Conan gave the glass
ball a good shake, and the room was revealed in the resulting yellow
glow.

The first thing he saw was Heng Shih, pressed against the wall across
from him, sword in hand and an incredulous frown wrinkling his smooth
features. The Khitan extended a hand as if to knock the light-globe
from Conan's grasp.

"Easy." The Cimmerian stepped away from the door. "They're chasing the
light I rolled into the second floor. With any luck, they'll think we
dropped it and are hiding down there. Probably wouldn't believe a man
of your size could run fast enough to get this far anyway."

Heng Shih lowered his scimitar, but kept his frown, apparently seeing
little humor in the situation.

The globe in Conan's fist showed the room to be an eldritch combination
of sorcerous laboratory and unnatural greenhouse. The barbarian
wrinkled his nose in puzzlement. The chamber smelled more like a humid
jungle glade than a stone room in a desert ruin.

A single small chair stood in the center of one wall, overlooking the
many tables that all but filled the chamber.

The tables were of varying sizes, each holding a bewildering array of
odd paraphernalia, ranging from racks of liquid-filled vials to a set
of flat, metal trays that apparently held only moist earth. One of the
central tables held a box fashioned of transparent glass panels bound
with bronze. Within the box was a round bush, thickly covered with fat,
reddish leaves.

. Along the wall across from the chair was a long table covered with a
tent-like drape of thick black velvet. Heng Shih approached the shroud
of dark fabric. The sharp tip of his scimitar lifted the fabric from
the table and a brilliant ray of golden light shone out, stinging his
eyes. It was as though he revealed the desert sun itself. The table
beneath was set with a number of unrecognizable plants growing from
ceramic pots full of soil. The velvet cowl was draped over a framework
of thin metal struts that also held, at measured intervals, several
extraordinarily bright light-globes.

Heng Shih let the cowl fall back into place and the golden light faded
abruptly, like the sun falling behind a storm cloud. He turned to see
Conan standing beside a. small table. The Cimmerian had laid the
light-globe on the tabletop. He was fastening his backpack and
adjusting it beneath his dusty cloak. The barbarian gestured to the
black and empty doorway across the room.

"We've tarried long enough."

The portal opened upon yet another dark and deserted hall. Conan held
the light-globe muffled beneath his cloak, so that only a dim glow lit
their way. They turned to the right, moving deeper into the palace's
stone heart. The silence was as heavy as lead, weighting them down.

Ahead, the hallway ended in a high arch unlike anything they had seen
thus far. Conan stopped, and drew from his belt the silken shirt he had
used as a mask against the storm. He wrapped the light-globe in the
shirt and set it against a wall. A gentle, yellow radiance shone
faintly through the bundle of cloth. Heng Shih watched with a concealed
impatience that the barbarian seemed to sense.

"Come," said the Cimmerian. "This room is different."

Conan passed beneath the open arch, stepping into an even deeper
darkness. The stone floor of the hall ended at the arch. Within the
circular room beyond there was no true floor, but rather a ring-like
balcony made of a lusterless black metal. The balcony ran around the
room's perimeter, encircling an open shaft of uncertain depth.

Heng Shih followed Conan into the strange chamber, pacing soundlessly a
step behind and to the right. The pair . drew to a halt on the metal
balcony, straining their eyes into the dark, trying to see across the
room's empty center. Conan laid a hand on the low railing and spoke in
a harsh whisper.

"We can reach the other door from either side. But what is that scent?"

Heng Shih frowned in frustration. His dilated eyes could scarcely
discern a darker smudge against a featureless background that had to be
the far wall. It made sense that both branches of the balcony would
meet at a doorway across from the one they had entered, but he could
see nothing of it. The Cimmerian's vision was uncanny. Then Heng Shih
noticed the scent.

The balcony, only wide enough for two men to walk abreast, bracketed a
well of absolute darkness. And from the unfathomed depths below rose a
faint odor, reminiscent of stale perfume. After a few breaths, Heng
Shih found that its apparent sweetness masked a cloying undercurrent of
decay. His hands ached to spell out questions in sign language, but he
knew that Conan would not understand.

The barbarian stood rigidly at the balcony's lip, all of his senses
focused into the darkness before him. The hair on his forearms
prickled. There was something wrong about this room. Heng Shih stared
at Conan in dismay, noting the Cimmerian's animal wariness and unable
to account for it. The Khitan put his hand on the worn hilt of his
scimitar.

Conan's sword lashed from its scabbard, hissing sharply as it cut the
air.

"Soldiers. More than four of them, coming to the other door."

Heng Shih started in surprise, drew his sword from his sash and stared
in vain across the lightless room. He waited a suspended moment, every
sense awakening. A faint and wavering yellow glow illuminated the
opposite arch, revealing the room to be about twenty paces across. The
scuff of boots on stone came to his ears. He tugged the wooden mace
from his belt and looked to Conan. The Cimmerian cocked his head and
grinned wolfishly at his comrade.

"No better time to shift the odds in our favor. Here we can take them
one at a time. Are you game?"

The Khitan nodded his shaven head, stepping to the right branch of the
balcony even as Conan moved onto the left. The pair advanced slowly,
weapons at the ready. And then the opposite arch was abruptly full of
light and armed men.

"They're here!"

Hands gripping luminous spheres of crystal were thrust into the room's
darkness as twelve armored Stygians pushed out onto the balcony. They
reacted smoothly, drawing blades and splitting into two groups without
orders, moving like professional warriors who had trained long
together.

Conan cursed under his breath. There were too many of them, and they
were too good. The balcony forced the Stygians to advance in single
file. The last man in each line held a light-globe high, so that his
comrades could see.

"Intruders," cried the light-bearer on Heng Shih's side, "cast down
your blades and be spared!"

Conan's reply was to charge his first challenger. A barbaric war cry
resounded in the vaulted chamber as the Cimmerian sprinted forward,
closing the distance between himself and his foe with terrible speed.
The Stygian mercenary was astonished by this unexpected tactic,
recoiling into the soldier to his rear. Conan brought his scimitar down
with all the power of his shoulders behind it. His blow dashed aside
the attempted parry, cleaving through the steel helmet to split the
Stygian's skull. The man fell back among his fellows, dead on his feet.
The second mercenary stumbled over the sprawling body, an outhrust hand
catching at the balcony's rail. Stepping forward, Conan reversed his
blade. His return cut brought the sword back up in a murderous swath
that passed inside the staggering man's failing guard and up through
the breastplate to split his sternum. The shattering impact of the blow
lifted the man from his feet and sent him hurtling over the balcony in
a shower of blood and a mad flurry of flailing limbs.

"Come ahead, dogs!" roared the barbarian. The battle-madness of the
berserker raged through Conan's veins, driving him forward with such
raw fury that his more numerous opponents found themselves drawing
backward in an involuntary retreat.

Across the pit, Heng Shih feinted with his wooden mace. When the
mercenary facing him parried the blow, the Khitan's scimitar lashed out
with such strength that the man's head sprang from his shoulders and
rebounded from the ceiling. The body collapsed like a dropped wineskin,
sending a wash of crimson vintage spilling over the balcony's rim. The
next Stygian lunged in, only to find his thrust blocked by a precise
movement of the mace, and his belly laid open by a sudden slash of the
scimitar.

Conan saw none of this, for his third opponent was a man of some
ability. Cursing steadily in the name of Set and Bubastis, the warrior
traded cuts with the Cimmerian, closing with him over the sprawled body
of Conan's first kill. The barbarian's boot skidded on blood-smeared
metal, and the Stygian drove forward, his thrust tearing through the
patched portion of Conan's mail and searing along his ribs. Conan
grunted in pain and, hooking the point of his scimitar in above his
foe's gorget, thrust the mercenary through the throat. The blade burst
through the man's neck, splintering his spine and lodging in the bone.
The luckless Stygian reeled backward with a gurgling cry, tearing the
blade from Conan's hand and tumbling headlong over the railing to
disappear in the darkness below.

The Cimmerian drew his dagger even as he watched his sword go. The
fourth mercenary gave a hoarse shout of triumph to see the fearsome
barbarian disarmed. The shout's timbre shifted as Conan dove headfirst
into his oncoming foes, slamming bodily into the leading Stygian and
bearing both of those following to the balcony in a cursing, writhing
heap. No sooner had they struck the metal flooring than Conan was
struggling up, wrenching his dagger from the entrails of his fourth
opponent. The fifth, fighting for position, came to his knees and
awkwardly brought his shortsword down on the head of the rising
Cimmerian. The leather helmet saved his skull, but couldn't keep his
scalp from splitting under the impact. Fire-shot blackness rolled
across Conan's vision. Stunned by the blow, the barbarian half lunged
and half fell forward, driving a clenched fist into the swordsman's
face. The blow landed with a meaty crunch and the man spilled over
backward with a broken jaw.

Conan's sole remaining opponent scrambled up from the balcony and
turned to flee. Hurling himself forward across the flooring, the
Cimmerian caught at the mercenary's flying ankle, snagging a strap of
his sandal. With a cry of terror, the man twisted in midstride,
desperate to escape the barbarian's grip. The Stygian tore free of
Conan's fist, but in doing so spun wildly into the railing, which
struck him just below the waist. He upended, all but flying over the
rail, and fell into the shaft with a horrible scream. There was a
muffled crunch from below, as though the man had fallen into a dry
thicket.

Conan seized a fallen shortsword in a bloodied fist. Gripping the
railing with his other hand, he pulled himself slowly to his feet. The
breath whistled between his clenched teeth, and sweat ran freely along
his limbs. He looked across the pit to see how Heng Shih fared.

The Khitan stood splay-legged, holding the hilt of his scimitar against
his broad belly with both hands. The point of the scimitar was embedded
in the chest of the last Stygian mercenary, whose body hung as limply
on the blade as an impaled rag. As Conan looked on, Heng Shih hoisted
the body up, and with a powerful heave, hurled it into the pit.

The last soldiers had laid their light-globes on the balcony before
engaging the invaders. Now the two men looked at each other in the
eerie yellow glow. The Cimmerian bared his teeth in a grotesque
approximation of a smile. He drew a hand across his brow to wipe away
the blood seeping from his scalp wound.

"Crom and Ymir, that was as touchy a set-to as I have ever—"

A terrible screaming arose from the shaft and silenced him. A single
human voice strained in notes of an unknowable agony. The hair rose on
Conan's head. He drew away from the balcony's rim, pressing his broad
back to the cool stone wall, as the screaming intensified into an
inhuman siren and was suddenly cut off.

A new sound floated up from the hidden depths of the shaft. A subtle
rustle that grew steadily in volume until it was a ragged rasping, as
if the walls below were scraped by thousands of steel blades.

Conan shot a glance at Heng Shin and saw that the Khitan was moving
carefully toward the arch through which the soldiers had come. The
Cimmerian stepped in that direction too, moving stealthily, and then
hastening as the sounds in the pit grew louder and, horribly, nearer.

Something was rising out of the shaft. It moved faster and faster,
tearing at the walls around it, until it shot up past the balcony. To
Conan's horrified eyes it resembled nothing so much as a tree of
surging darkness, hurling its black branches aloft until they crunched
against the domed ceiling. It paused there, suspended in the shaft, a
tangled tower of rustling darkness, and then it fell down toward them.

"Crom!" The curse was wrenched from the barbarian's throat. Conan
ducked and ran for the door, almost slamming into Heng Shih as the
Khitan came through on his heels. They ran for their lives down a
darkened corridor, while behind them a soul-searing scream was ripped
from the man whose jaw Conan had broken. The cry was mercifully short,
but superseded by the even more chilling sound of the swift, rasping
progress of the blood-sotted Emerald Lotus as it pursued its prey.


Chapter Thirty-Six
------------------

When Zelandra was a girl of twelve, she contracted a fever that came
close to ending her life. When the disease reached its critical phase,
and her young body was wracked with chills and delirium, her parents
wrapped her in woolen blankets and laid her upon a couch on a balcony
overlooking the grounds of their estate. There they left her to fight
for her life.

The strength of her youth, and the powerful Vendhyan medicines they had
given her, gradually won out over the sickness. When she came to
herself it was as though she was emerging from a long, winding tunnel
of woven dreams. The events of the previous few days blurred into a
fantastical skein of unfocused impressions, and she had no real idea of
where she was or how she had come to be there. There was only a strong
sensation of well-being: the sense that she was well at last and
sitting safely in her home.

Now Zelandra felt that old feeling anew, and her stirring consciousness
believed that she was back on that balcony in the summer of her twelfth
year. The sensation of emerging from a half-recalled maze of unreal
events was the same. Zelandra licked her dry lips and opened her mouth
to call for her mother, but found that her voice would not respond. As
her vision began to clear, she noticed that someone was speaking to her
in a familiar voice. It was a hateful voice. It planted a germ of
unease that took root within her, growing and spreading until her
emerging awareness focused upon a simple and disturbing certainty. She
was not on that balcony now.

Zelandra found herself looking down at her feet. There was a bitter,
oddly familiar, taste in her mouth. A frown creased her high forehead
as she noticed the dismal condition of her fine riding boots. How had
they come to be so battered and dirty? The hateful voice droned on,
sounding very pleased with itself. Zelandra looked up to see who would
speak to her in such an annoying fashion.

"Are you coming back to us now? Yes, I believe that you are. It is a
great honor and a greater pleasure to have you as my guest, Lady
Zelandra. First of all, you must tell me, how did you manage to use my
lotus so slowly? Shakar, the poor fool, was dead within two days of
finishing his supply. How is it that you still have some left after all
this time?"

Zelandra stood up straight and ran a hand through her tangled hair. She
knew where she must be, though she remained uncertain as to how and
when she had arrived. Saying nothing, the sorceress looked slowly and
carefully around the huge room, taking in her captors, the black
statue, and the bound form of Neesa. Her eyes met those of her scribe
for a moment; then Zelandra made herself look away. She could not
recall the last time that she had seen Heng Shih or the Cimmerian. She
wondered if they were dead. Her lips parted again and when her voice
came, it was like the creak of a rust-choked hinge.

"Shakar must not have seen your lotus for the poison that it is. Either
that or he took too much at once and found himself unable to lower the
dosage. I felt the craving from the start and tried to stave it off
immediately. I used whatever power the drug gave me to strengthen
myself against it. Would that you had done the same."

"Ah." Ethram-Fal was smiling at the spirit and cogency of her response.
His thin lips drew back from green-stained teeth in a loathsome grin
that gave his face the appearance of a withered skull.

"Well done, milady. A small triumph of skill and determination. And
yet, here you are now, a mere handful of hours from a painful death
despite your best efforts. It seems most unjust, does it not? Perhaps
this is the time to bargain?"

"Bargain?" Zelandra's eyelids fluttered and she put her left hand to
her brow. She had to buy time, both to remember what she could about
how she came here and to plan some sort of action, however suicidal.
Pretending greater weakness than she felt, the sorceress closed her
eyes and rubbed at her forehead.

"Yes, of course," said Ethram-Fal with ill-concealed impatience, "You
must remember—"

"You were Eldred the Trader?"

"Yes, yes, I thought that you understood all of that. I came to both
you and Shakar the Keshanian in that guise so as to test the effects of
my lotus upon you."

"A spell of hypnotism?"

"Ha! Hardly!" The little sorcerer puffed up like a preening sparrow.
"Nothing so simplistic and easy to expose. It was a full-fledged
glamour: a flawless illusion to any who might look upon it. Behold!"

As the Lady Zelandra watched, Ethram-Fal's slight body began to shimmer
like a desert mirage. His image blurred over swiftly, then cleared,
revealing an astonishing transformation. Where the stunted Stygian in
stained robes had been, now stood a plump and stately Shemite dressed
in the elegant silks of a successful merchant. His black beard parted
in a broad smile. The illusion winked out and there was Ethram-Fal,
grinning just as broadly.

"You see? Such mummery is nothing to me now."

"But the time, the preparations…" Zelandra dissembled. Feeling within
for sorcerous strength, she was shocked by her own weakness. The bit of
Emerald Lotus given to her by Ethram-Fal had apparently vented most of
its strength in merely returning her to rational consciousness. A
powerful offensive spell was out of the question. She had to conceive
of a simple defensive tactic that would both take her captors by
surprise and allow her adequate time to free Neesa and flee. Her mind
raced frantically as she felt the borrowed power of the lotus fading,
moment by moment.

"You disappoint me, milady. Either you have used my lotus so sparingly
as to be unaware of its true strength or you are much less perceptive
than I had hoped. Such spells are little more than child's play to me.
The Emerald Lotus has so enhanced my abilities that I daresay I'm more
than a match for any of those arrogant, shortsighted pigs of the Black
Ring."

Zelandra made her eyes go wide and took on a look of amazement. "As
powerful as that?" she murmured. Her aura of awed astonishment served
its purpose. Ethram-Fal swelled visibly with pride and continued in
more strident tones, while she settled upon a simple spell of blindness
and strove to recall the precise and elaborate details of its casting.

"Certainly! You are familiar with the spell called the Hand of Yimsha?
It is a simple manipulator that can be performed by any apprentice of
moderate talent to pick up small objects and move them about. It is a
fine index of a sorcerer's skill. I have read that the creators of that
spell were mighty enough to use it as a weapon, and heard it rumored
that Thoth-Amon employed it to build his palace at the Oasis of Khajar.
Understand this well, Zelandra, I no longer even need to conjure it. It
is with me always. And I have used it to kill. Thus far I have seen
nothing to indicate that there is an upper limit to the power bestowed
by the Emerald Lotus. The more I immerse myself in it, the mightier I
become. If you join me, milady, all the power I describe and more shall
be yours. Do you understand what it is that I am offering you?" The
Stygian leaned forward and lifted his hands imploringly, his tainted
eyes shining green as a cat's. "We could become as gods!"

Zelandra thrust out both hands as though pushing him away. Thin streams
of gray smoke coiled along the pale flesh of her forearms.

"Tieranog Dar Andurra!" her Voice snapped like the crack of a whip,
abruptly free of any weariness. .The eldritch spirals of soft gray did
not seem to extend themselves from her arms, yet the air was suddenly
choked with writhing tendrils of mist. Ethram-Fal cried out in shock as
the blunt tips of the smoke trails moved for his eyes like so many
trained cobras. Ath stumbled away, shouting incoherently in alarm, both
hands covering his face. Zelandra kept her hands extended, her fingers
working as if communicating in Heng Shih's sign language. On the altar,
Neesa began to writhe against her bonds.

Ethram-Fal backed quickly away, dodging the questing streamers of smoke
while muttering sibilant syllables under his breath. Beneath the blank
countenance of the black sphinx, with her back to the altar between its
paws, Zelandra struggled with her invocation, trying to strike her
nemesis blind before he gathered his wits or her strength failed.

Ethram-Fal was forced to retreat all the way to one of the temple's
doors, and now he stood motionless before it. He no longer sought to
avoid Zelandra's tentacles of smoke. They swarmed into his calm face.
From the halls behind him came the muted sounds of outcry and struggle,
distant yet drawing nearer. The Stygian sorcerer had no time for that.
He seemed to relax, his arms hanging limply at his sides, and the
chamber was filled with the sound of a raging wind. The strands of the
blindness spell were whipped about and shredded in a storm that was
felt by no one in the room. Zelandra watched as her desperate bid for
freedom disintegrated in a gale that did not so much as stir her hair.

"Clever!" yelled Ethram-Fal. "You led me to underestimate your
strength. I salute your power, but this last betrayal is too much to
bear. Feel the Hand of Yimsha, milady!"

The last gray streamers thinned and faded, like blood diluting in
water, and the Lady Zelandra felt a giant's fist close about her torso.
The pressure was immediate and excruciating. Tears sprang to her eyes
as the breath wheezed from her compacted lungs.

"Blame yourself, Zelandra! You might have shared the world with me.
I-I…" The Stygian appeared almost overcome by a sudden excess of
emotion. His wizened face darkened, contorted by hatred and something
less easy to identify. "Damn you! Do you think I can't find another to
take your place? You're nothing to me! Nothing!"

Zelandra frantically sucked for breath and felt her feet leaving the
floor. She was borne upward and back until she hung suspended above the
prone form of Neesa and directly in front of the smooth oval of the
idol's face. Even through the haze of pain her eyes were drawn to it,
fearfully seeking something in its blank and implacable emptiness.
Against the black gloss of its face, a deeper darkness bloomed and
grew.

"Tribute!" screamed Ethram-Fal, his body vibrating in every limb.
"Sacrifice!" His fist shook and, away across the chamber, Zelandra's
body shook with it. The Stygian readied himself for the final moment,
opening his eyes wide so as to miss nothing.

There was a clamor in the hallway behind him. He thought to turn and
was dealt a blow that lifted him off his feet and dashed him against
the wall. His brow struck stone. Pain and blood blurred his vision as
he fell to the floor, stunned.

Neesa saw two figures burst into the chamber behind the Stygian
sorcerer. The foremost hurled Ethram-Fal aside with a casual blow of
his forearm, sending the little man flying like a discarded doll to
rebound limply from the wall. A pulse of excitement slammed through her
as she saw that the intruders were Conan and Heng Shih. Then Zelandra,
freed from the Hand of Yimsha, fell full upon her.

Ath advanced purposefully from the shadows beside the dark idol, his
broadsword whisking from its sheath. He moved directly for Conan, who
brandished his recently acquired shortsword and spoke.

"Flee, you fool! We're running from a devil out of hell!"

Ath responded with a swift, overhand cut aimed at splitting the
barbarian's skull. Oman's shorter blade licked out to deflect it with
an echoing clang.

"I'll take this dog," he bellowed to Heng Shih. "Cut the girl free!"

The Cimmerian presented a picture of starkly primordial savagery. His
huge body was entirely spattered with drying blood. A sluggish stream
of it split his face like a smear of some macabre war paint. His mail
shirt was tarnished and torn, hanging upon his mighty torso in tatters.
Glacial blue eyes blazed volcanically through the crimson streaking his
snarling visage, fastening upon the mercenary captain with chilling
intent.

As Ath stared at his opponent in growing trepidation, the barbarian
lashed out. The silvery sword darted for the Stygian's eyes. With a
speed that belied his rangy form, Ath brought his weapon up and caught
Conan's sword between the blade and quillion. With a practiced twist,
Ethram-Fal's captain snapped the barbarian's sword off three inches
above the hilt. The blade of the broken weapon sailed above the heads
of the combatants, falling to strike the stone floor and rebound with a
jingle. Ath skipped back to slash at his nigh-weaponless opponent, but
the Cimmerian lunged forward to embrace him. Their bodies slammed
together with a clash of mail. Ath's breath, sickly sweet with kaokao,
hissed into Conan's face. They grappled. The Stygian could not bring
his weapon to bear at such close quarters. The barbarian twisted his
sword arm free, dragged the stump of his broken weapon up inside Ath's
guard, and buried it in his throat. Then Conan shoved the Stygian away
from him with all his strength. The stricken captain reeled away,
falling on his back with a crash. His broadsword rattled across the
floor and was intercepted by Conan, who took two quick steps, bent, and
caught it neatly by the hilt. He snatched the blade up and turned
toward the statue, leaving Ath dying on the stone behind him.

Heng Shih's flare-bladed scimitar had cut the bonds pinning Neesa to
the black altar and she now stood beside it. The scribe rubbed at her
thigh where Zelandra's knee had struck her. Zelandra herself was locked
in an embrace with the brawny Khitan, her slender form almost engulfed
in his powerful arms.

A distant series of horrified screams came echoing down the hallway.
They were choked off almost at once, replaced by an indescribable
rasping sound.

"Crom! It follows us! Run if you value your lives!"

"You are going nowhere!"

All heads turned to the doorway that had admitted Conan and Heng Shih.
There, Ethram-Fal had struggled to his feet and stood unsteadily,
bracing himself against the portal's arch with one hand. The other hand
wiped at the unnaturally dark blood streaming from his forehead, then
extended, dripping, to point accusingly at the little group.

"Your luck is remarkable, Zelandra. But it will require more than the
selfless efforts of your slaves to save you from my wrath. Nothing has
changed. I shall—"

With the instinctive reflexes of the true barbarian, Conan chose that
moment to charge his foe. The savage, ululating war cry of a Cimmerian
tribesman smote the ears of those in the chamber. It froze the blood.

Ethram-Fal lifted his encrimsoned hand toward Conan and, with a
gesture, halted him in his tracks. A guttural grunt was torn from the
barbarian's lips as the Hand of Yimsha clenched its sorcerous fist.

"All of your paltry physical strength is as nothing," spat the Stygian.
"I shall crush you like the useless insect that you are." His hand
curled into a tighter fist and the Cimmerian jerked like a man
stretched rigid on the rack.

"Watch closely, Zelandra! This fate awaits you, too!" The fist began to
close.

Conan felt himself in the coils of some vast and invisible python.
Sheets of agony rippled over his straining torso and his skull
throbbed, filling his vision with billowing clouds of black and
scarlet. His lungs heaved, starving for air and unable to expand. Sweat
rolled down his contorted face to drip from his chin. Very slowly, he
lifted Ath's broadsword higher and took a faltering step forward.

"Set's mercies!" Ethram-Fal stared in amazed horror as the barbarian
took another dragging step toward him.

"Die, dog! Die!" screamed the sorcerer, clenching his fist and
squeezing tight. There was a strange sound somewhere in the hallway
behind him, but he had confined his attention to the barbarian. This
man was damned hard to kill.

Conan felt as if he were walking across the bottom of an ocean.
Pressure from all sides threatened to crush his body like a grape in a
wine press. Although his sword weighed more than a mountain and the
veins in his neck stood out like writhing serpents, all his besieged
senses remained set upon his enemy. He lamented the distance that still
lay between them while never wavering from his grim purpose. As he
shuffled forward another step, his vision began to dim.

"Now!" shouted the Stygian sorcerer. "Now I have you!"

At that moment the Emerald Lotus burst through the doorway like the
flood from a broken dam. It bore Ethram-Fal aloft before it, a mere
chip upon its tide. The bristling plant-thing drove its bulk through
the narrow gap of the doorway and thrust its thorned and flowering
branches into the chamber.

The sorcerer found himself helpless on the forefront of a surging
juggernaut. His startled cry became a full-throated scream as thorns
like black daggers pierced his struggling body.

Ethram-Fal's sorcerous grip fell away from Conan. The barbarian
staggered, looked up at the oncoming colossus, and blindly turned to
run.

Heng Shih, Neesa, and Zelandra shook free of the paralysis of horror
that had held them motionless. The Khitan seized the dazed Zelandra and
spun her toward the closest doorway. Neesa followed, turning her back
on the monstrosity that poured into the temple as she ran to grasp her
mistress's arm. Heng Shih rushed to Conan's aid as the battered
barbarian stumbled past him. The great scimitar lashed out at the
first, questing branch of the blood-hungry Emerald Lotus, lopping off a
section the length of a man and sending it spiraling away. The huge
bulk of the vampiric fungus slowed not at all. It bore down on the
Khitan with Ethram-Fal, howling like a dying dog, still fastened to its
swelling bosom. Spiked limbs festooned with vivid green flowers clawed
their way over the altar that stood between the black sphinx's stone
paws.

Conan hesitated in the portal's arch, and saw the women fleeing toward
safety down the hallway ahead. Then, turning back, he beheld Heng Shih
sprinting straight at him with a towering mass of lotus looming up
behind.

"Hurry!" roared the Cimmerian, hefting Ath's broadsword with an arm
that still ached from the cruel grip of Ethram-Fal's spell. The Khitan
shot past him through the arch and Conan followed. The Emerald Lotus
hit the wall around the opening with the sound of a forest splintered
by a lightning bolt. Tentacle-like branches whipped through the portal,
seeking warm flesh and blood.

Conan and Heng Shih ran down the darkened hallway, chasing the shadows
of Zelandra and Neesa, who were headed toward a vague and distant
light. Behind them the lotus screwed itself through the doorway and
pushed into the hall beyond. Its blood-gorged body almost filled the
passage. A thousand thorns and branch-tips sought purchase on the stone
walls, floor, and ceiling, pulling the abomination along with
frightening speed. Ethram-Fal, driven back into the body of the lotus
by its impact against the wall, writhed in his thorny prison and
screamed prayers to Set.

The four invaders rounded a corner and fled down the length of a long,
straight hall. Ahead loomed a pale arch. Neesa had time to sense a
freshening of the air before she ran right out of the Palace of
Cetriss. Suddenly there was a dark sky above her and a set of steps
beneath her madly running feet. She leapt forward to keep her balance,
landing with a clap of heels in the natural courtyard, where two
huddled guardsmen rushed to get to their feet.

The blood thundered in Conan's temples and he felt his much-abused body
falter. The climb into the palace followed by the pursuit and battle
with the guards would have exhausted any ordinary man. Following those
trials with Ethram-Fal's agonizing Hand of Yimsha had tested even his
iron endurance to its utmost limits. His heavily muscled legs trembled
with weariness and breathing filled his breast with flame. Ahead, he
saw the running form of Heng Shih drawing away down a hallway that had
gone vague and blurred. The floor seemed to pitch and roll beneath him
like the deck of a ship in a storm. His balance failed, and his
shoulder rebounded painfully from a wall, sending him staggering wildly
forward. Behind the barbarian, both the raging rasp of the "lotus and
the now-feeble cries of its master drew nearer.

Conan shot through the portal and out of the Palace of Cetriss in a
horizontal fall. When he hit the steps, he kicked forward with both
feet, sending himself across the courtyard in a headlong dive. As his
body struck the polished stone of the clearing's floor with punishing
impact, he skidded forward and lay still. The Emerald Lotus exploded
through the portal into the outside world. Conan heard muffled shouts
and cries. There was a momentary clash of steel against steel; then a
woman's voice rose above all.

"Cease, you idiots! The demon has devoured your master!"

Whipping back his sweat-soaked hair, Conan shot a glance over a
shoulder and saw the writhing mass of the Emerald Lotus come slithering
down the palace steps. The exhausted Cimmerian dragged himself forward,
his knees sliding over the smooth stone.

* * *

Through the flowering tendrils that imprisoned him, Ethram-Fal watched
the crawling form of the barbarian. As the Stygian tried to call a last
curse down upon his enemy, a great, green blossom bloomed from the
sorcerer's open mouth, cutting off sound and breath forever. Rowers
burst from his corpse.

Conan lunged forward and fell heavily on his chest, driving both hands
into the fluffy, gray ashes of the firepit. He groped desperately as
the lotus rose above him in a, tidal wave of deadly thorns, verdant
blossoms, and lashing branches. The first limbs fell across his
outstretched legs. The Cimmerian seized something from the firepit that
seared into his palm. He rolled over and, with a savage howl of rage,
thrust the red-hot ember into the body of the Emerald Lotus.

The effect was immediate and overwhelming. Scarlet curls of flame
erupted around the outhrust ember. It was as though he had torched a
dead and dried evergreen. The Emerald Lotus recoiled in a convulsive
heave, drawing away from the barbarian and pulling back onto the palace
stairs. But a scarlet badge of fire clung to its branches and grew
there, coursing over and through its misshapen form. It burned with a
sharp, ear-piercing hiss. In a moment its interior was alive with flame
and the silhouettes of its victims' bodies were etched in deepest black
against the flaring red-orange light. Then the lotus withdrew into the
palace like a snake fleeing down its hole. The glow of its burning
dwindled down the dark hallway.

Conan the Cimmerian lay on his back, supporting himself on one elbow,
and watched the death throes of the Emerald Lotus. From within the
Palace of Cetriss came a relentless crashing and rasping as the demonic
thing thrashed out its unnatural life within the confines of its
creator's lair. Each of the windows shone briefly with fiery light as
the lotus rampaged through the palace seeking succor.

In time it was still.

The sandstorm had passed, leaving behind a cloud-swept night sky full
of clean, rushing wind. Neesa knelt at Conan's side. The barbarian
struggled to rise, and Neesa laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. Heng
Shih limped close, using his scimitar like a cane. His breathing was
audible as his heavy hand joined Neesa's on Conan's brawny shoulder.

"Lie still," she whispered. "You must rest."

"No," growled the Cimmerian. "I want to stand." Conan stood up, his
feet spread wide apart. The night wind cooled his burnt hand and pulled
his black mane away from his bloodstained face. He looked across the
courtyard at the two Stygian guardsmen, who stood in tense silence,
swords clutched in rigid hands. He scowled and, wordlessly, they came
forward and laid their weapons at his feet.


Exeunt
------

Tossing back half the remaining flagon of watered wine, Conan wrapped
his cloak around himself, leaned against the gorge's wall and
immediately dozed off. After a brief conversation in sign language with
Zelandra, Heng Shih followed the barbarian's example. Neesa and her
mistress spoke in hushed tones for some time. They cast suspicious
glances at the two surviving mercenary soldiers of Ethram-Fal, who sat
in dispirited silence. With their employer and comrades dead, the pair
apparently saw scant reason to quarrel with the invaders. Sleepless,
they sat against the canyon's far wall, awaiting the morning and their
fate.

In time Neesa fell into an exhausted slumber, leaning against the
shoulder of Lady Zelandra, who showed no apparent signs of weariness.
The lady stared straight ahead,

and though her gaze made the Stygian captives cringe and look away, it
was not directed at them. She looked ahead to her future and bided her
time until the morning. Thus, when the sun drove the stars from the
sky, she was the first into the Palace of Cetriss.

The gentle sounds of her rousing woke Conan, who stretched hugely,
shook Heng Shih awake, and followed her. He slowed just long enough to
cast a baleful glance at the Stygian captives. Behind him, the sun rose
with slow inevitability until its fierce golden rays fell into the
canyon cul-de-sac.

The interior of the Palace of Cetriss had been scourged by the death
throes of the flaming Emerald Lotus. Most of the light-globes had been
torn from their niches in the walls and smashed by its passing. Conan
picked up one of the few surviving globes and used it to light their
way. The cots in the Great Chamber were smashed into scorched kindling.
Ethram-Fal's laboratories and private rooms looked as if a fiery wind
out of hell had blown through them, crushing and charring everything
into black wreckage. Nowhere did they see a human body. Silence lay
thick on the smoke-tainted air.

They found the Emerald Lotus in its chamber, as if in death it had
sought out the place of its birth. It had burnt down to its twisted
core. The lotus was reduced to a clenched coil of blackened, thorny
branches gripping a ghastly collection of contorted skeletons. The
incinerated corpses of its victims were crushed together in its death
embrace, wound and woven into its shrunken fabric so that Conan and
Zelandra found it impossible to tell one body from another. All, human
and animal, master and slave, were joined in death. The smoke and
intense heat had seared and darkened the chamber, staining the walls as
far as the pair could see. The high band of hieroglyphics that
encircled the room was obscured by soot.

Conan took the sword that had been Ath's and struck at a curled limb of
the lotus. Though it looked as solid as black stone, the burnt branch
broke apart more easily than coal, crumbling into loose ash and
releasing the skull it gripped to fall and rattle hollowly on the
scarred stone floor.

Tearing free a shred of his tattered shirt, the barbarian distastefully
wiped the dark ash from his blade. He noticed that Zelandra was staring
emptily at the corpse of the Emerald Lotus. She stood still and silent,
one arm crooked across her midsection. The sorceress breathed shallowly
and did not seem to blink. Conan took her arm and led her away.

The palace's lowest levels seemed to have escaped the insensate fury of
the dying lotus. In a crude series of rooms carved out below the desert
floor, they found both the stables where the mercenaries kept their
camels and ponies and a room full of supplies. There were sacks of
provisions, grain for the beasts, and a large collection of tall
ceramic jugs of water. They led the animals into the light, where Heng
Shih and Neesa anxiously awaited their return.

The Stygian captives were astonished when Conan gave each water and a
camel and told them to be gone. The taller of the two stared mutely at
the Cimmerian, while the other bowed low, as though he stood before a
king. They wasted no time in taking the barbarian's advice and
departing down the narrow canyon.

While Conan, Heng Shih, and Neesa prepared to leave by bathing in the
plentiful water and eating freely of the mercenaries' provisions,
Zelandra quietly disappeared into the palace. When all was in
readiness, the three looked about for her. They found Lady Zelandra in
the pillar-flanked doorway, her face glimmering as pale as a mask of
alabaster against the darkness of the portal. When Zelandra emerged
into the morning light, they saw that her body was bent forward and
that she used one arm to clutch her ribs. .

"Conan, Neesa," she called, and then more tenderly, "Heng Shih."

"Come along, milady," said Neesa, a faint quaver in her voice. "We've
far to go."

"No," answered Zelandra. "I have scoured every inch of this ruin and
can find none of the Emerald Lotus. The entire plant has been burnt to
useless ash. You must leave me here; I would not burden you with my
madness and my death. I have failed and, despite his doom, Ethram-Fal
has triumphed."

"Nay," said Conan as he swung his long legs over his camel's back and
dismounted. "I must be getting old if a little fighting makes me so
forgetful." The Cimmerian bounded up the stone steps of the palace
toward the Lady Zelandra, and drew his backpack from beneath a bronzed
arm. "I snatched this from the wizard's room of magics when Heng Shih
and I hid from his guards."

A long, slender box of polished ebony emerged from the scruffy backpack
and gleamed dully in the morning light. Conan twisted the golden clasp,
lifted the lid, and held out the open box for Zelandra to see.

The sorceress could not restrain a gasp as she gazed upon a glittering
drift of emerald dust.

"The Stygian's private stock, I'll warrant," grunted Conan. "I hope,
lady, that this is enough to serve your need."

Zelandra took the box, closed it, and held it to her breast.

"Yes, barbarian, I will make it so."

Together they walked from the shadow of the Palace of Cetriss into the
bright sun of Stygia. The Cimmerian lifted the weary sorceress to her
camel's back, and the little group moved as one down the canyon that
led to the west and away. Conan took the lead, the desert wind tossing
his black mane. He did not look back.

Behind them, the Palace of Cetriss returned to the silence in which it
had slept for thirty centuries. Its weathered pillars warmed in the
rising sun and cooled with the coming of night. Deep within, alone in
its high and vaulted temple, the faceless statue of black stone stared
into the darkness that it knew so well.