Conan The Fearless (19 page)

As Djuvula urged onward the frightened horses pulling her wagon, something dark flew across her path. gibbering loudly. The horses started and would have turned had she not used her whip. Despite blinders and a calming spell laid upon them, the horses were always skittish. Perhaps they somehow felt the danger that had once claimed one of their number while pulling Djuvula’s wagon. That time, only Djavul had saved her from the fate of the horse, the filling of some monstrous thing’s bloated belly.

Djuvula shuddered. She wished very much that Djavul still lived and was seated next to her now.

By her estimate she would need travel this hellish road only another ten minutes to emerge into her own world again. And ahead of her quarry. She already had her plans for handling the wizard and barbarian. If nothing went agley.

Even as she thought this, Djuvula saw a ripple in the landscape ahead of her. The ground flowed upward in a pulsing mound as a wave swells in a storm. The earth split with a wrenching sound, as if giant nails were being pulled from solid wood. A cave filled with pointed stone teeth suddenly yawned before the sorceress. That this earth-demon would devour her, horses, wagon, and all, she doubted not at all.

The animals pulling her wagon needed no urging to turn aside. Djuvula allowed them to tow the wagon away from the road monster, then quickly pulled them to a stop. To travel away from the safety of the road would be folly of the highest order. Despite her desire to arrive in the real world ahead of the party she sought, she decided to leave the inbetween lands. That the road monster somehow traveled toward her, moving like a wave in water, hastened her decision. She intoned the words of the spell quickly but carefully. The swimming air seemed to dance faster, and an actinic flash lit the scene … .

She found herself on a small road on the edge of a danklooking wood. Quickly, she determined that she had arrived at the northern limit of the Bloddolk Forest; a further working of her location spell, using Conan’s clothing, showed that the barbarian lay ahead of her, at least half a day’s journey. Damn! She would have to enchant the horses so they could run all night to catch up to them. Unless she wanted to risk the in-between lands again. The memory of the cave-mouthed monster drove that thought away in a hurry.

The witch laid the lash alongside the ear of the lead horse with a pop! and the horses moved. One of them snorted and tossed his head, looking nervous. Djuvula looked in the direction of his attention.

Sleeping in the crook of a twisted hardwood tree lay a panther. Djuvula cursed the horse. “Fool animal, after what you have just seen on the highway through hell, you fear a sleeping beast?” She stung the horse’s rump with the whip, and the animal went back to his job. The wagon moved away from the twisted tree and the sleeping cat.

Of the panther, once out of sight, Djuvula thought no more.

The camp was laid, the tire banked, and Vitarius set his magical wards once again. Conan had just dozed into a light sleep next to Kinna when he was jerked from slumber by a terrible cacophony around him.

It sounded to the Cimmerian as if the world were ending; a blast of noise smote his ears, louder even than the screams of the slain demon, Djavul. With the screeching came also a flashing of light, multicolored and blindingly bright. It took but a moment for him to realize what had happened: Something had entangled itself in Vitarius’s magic spell.

Conan rolled from his bed, snatched up his sword, and came to his feet in a single fluid motion. The night sky was cloudy, but the splashes of light from the spell were sufficient to see all too well: The demi-whelves had attacked.

Vitarius untangled himself from his bedding and moved for Eldia, who was scrambling up with her own short sword held ready. Kinna had Conan’s curved knife and was on her feet as Conan ran to meet the first whelf to enter the campsite. Muscles rippled under dark fur as the beast lunged at Conan, fangs bared to tear out his throat.

Those same fangs clacked shut in a final horror as Conan cleaved the head holding them from the whelf’s neck with a single stroke of his night-cooled steel. Without pausing, the Cimmerian turned lightly on the balls of his feet to face another leaping wolf. This one spitted itself on the point of Conan’s sword, howling wolfishly as it fell.

Unfortunately, the dying demi-whelf took Conan’s blade down with him, twisting so hard that the handle was pulled from the Cimmerian’s powerful grasp. Conan cursed, and bent to retrieve the embedded sword; as he did, a third whelf, attacking from the rear, missed its intended grab-and-bite aimed at Conan’s neck. The whelf hit the man instead with its skinny legs, tripped, and flew over Conan in a lopsided flip, landing upon its back on the hard ground.

Conan pulled on his sword, but the weight of the dead whelf held the blood-warmed steel fast. The beast that had smacked into the ground began to rise.

The Cimmerian abandoned his task, turning instead to face the third attacker. He growled, to match the voice of the demi-whelf. As the beast set itself to spring, however, it was suddenly distracted. The whelf’s attention upon Conan faltered for two reasons: Eldia’s small sword stabbed into its rump as Kinna’s knife slashed its opposite leg to the bone. The beast howled.

Conan leaped and drove a hammerlike fist between the whelf’s surprised eyes- The creature dropped as might a sack of grain, its consciousness knocked from it.

Conan did not pause, but leaped back to retrieve his sword. With one foot against the downed whelf he wrenched his blade free.

Vitarius, at this point, managed to reach Eldia. The old mage put one hand upon the girl’s head as the words of some magical chant rose against the din of the warding spell.

Conan had no more time to watch, then, as a phalanx of whelves suddenly breached the camp’s perimeter and charged toward the human occupants. He grinned, and ran to meet the new threat, slinging from his sword the gore of their downed comrades at the new arrivals as he moved.

The tight formation of whelves scattered at the sound and sight of Conan’s whistling blade. The beasts were fast, but they stumbled over each other in their haste to reposition themselves, being too many in too small a space. One moved too slowly from the Cimmerian’s reach, and so became a kind of limb-brother to the destroyed demon, Djavul.

A flash of supernal blue light came then in a tight beam that speared first one whelf, then a second and third. Thick smoke and steam erupted from the lupiform beasts as the light touched them, the beam moving like some supernatural spear. Eldia.

The remaining whelves scattered, baying in fear. Conan turned in time to see a shadowy form come up behind Vitarius and Eldia. The Cimmerian yelled and sprinted for them, but even he could not move fast enough. A clubbed and apelike fist smote the old man above one ear, and he crumpled. The contact between the wizard and the girl of Fire thus broken, the blue flame died abruptly, winking out like a snuffed candle. The afterglow filled Conan’s eyes as he ran for the attacker, who bent to grab Eldia. The girl whipped her small blade up, and the whelf leaped back a step.

The short delay was enough; Conan thundered across the ground, not bothering to slow as he barreled into the whelf. The big man’s shoulder smashed against the beast’s chest, knocking it from its feet. The Cimmerian followed, lifted his sword, and brought it down hard. This one would trouble them no more.

Conan spun, to see Vitarius trying to stand. Quickly, he moved to help the old man to his feet.

The wizard was stunned. “What-what happened?”

“You were struck from the rear. I killed it.”

Vitarius shook his head. “The whelves … ?”

“Dead, mostly, or gone. I see none moving.”

The older man nodded, then looked about in sudden fear. “Eldia! And Kinna! Where are they?”

Conan looked around quickly. Of the two sisters there was no sign.

In the high reaches of Castle Slott, Sovartus of the Black Square laughed maniacally in triumph. She was his! His enthralled whelves had her! Only moments before, a raven had come, bearing the message from the ruler of the demi-whelves. Even now, the girl of Fire was en route, traveling through the underground network of tunnels built by a hundred generations of the earth-dwelling lupines.

Sovartus stood in a bare tower room, festooned with loops of dust-laden spider silk. The room had not been used for years, but the dark stains upon the slatted wood floor testified to its grisly former purpose. This was the topmost enclosed space in the castle, a circular room with windows facing each of the four directions. It would be here that Sovartus would compound the Elements and create the most potent magic seen since before the sinking of Atlantis.

He strolled slowly about the perimeter of the tower, pausing to look through each arched window. He grinned. Soon each window would hold framed a view of a single Element: To the east would dance great winds; to the west, the earth itself would roil; to the north, storms would pour forth a deluge; and to the south-ah-finally, to the south would burn a pillar of fire, warm enough to scorch the dwellers of Hell itself. When the Elements were in place, then would he, Sovartus of the Black Square, command them to join; then would be born the Thing of Power.

Ah, yes, then would the Four meld and blend to become more than they had ever been. The idea, the forestalling, would be the conception and birth, the befruktning. And the world would tremble before it-and the man who mastered it.

Sovartus laughed again and clapped his hands. Immediately, a pair of black-robed and cowled figures entered the room and bowed low. Their faces were invisible within the shadows of their hoods, and they spoke not, but bowed again to the wizard.

“Fetch the Three,” Sovartus commanded. “And have my talisman table and accoutrements brought here. And my robe of virgin’s hair.”

The figures in black bowed low again and scurried from the tower, leaving Sovartus alone. When they had gone, the magician stared at the stains upon the floor. Soon, he thought, soon the cities of men would resemble that dark spot, did they not offer up to him total obeisance. The name of Sovartus would inflict fear and respect upon every man and woman hearing it, soon. Soon.

Conan found the bloody knife lying near a hole in the ground. He picked it up and hefted it. The same knife he had taken from Lemparius the wereman, the same he had last seen Kinna wielding against the demi-whelves. He stared at the hole, which angled into the earth wide enough so that a man could slide into it easily.

Vitarius came to stand next to him. “One of the entrances to the whelves’ tunnels. They have taken the sisters underground.”

Conan nodded, then made as if to enter the hole.

Vitarius touched the younger man’s shoulder with one bony hand. “Nay, Conan. Crom may live inside a mountain, but this land belongs to the whelves. You would not find them in the darkness under the earth. Besides, likely they are a far distance away by now, heading for the castle.”

Conan turned away from the entrance to the demi-whelves’ domain. “Then we must ride for the castle ourselves. They must cover the same distance, tunnel or no, and if we hurry, perhaps we can arrive before Sovartus takes them.”

“It is dark,” Vitarius said. “In the morning-“

“I do not fear the dark,” the Cimmerian said. “If the beasts below are moving, so must we. If you would rather remain behind, I will go alone-“

“Nay,” Vitarius said. “I shall accompany you.”

The two men started for their horses.

The wagon of Djuvula the Witch lay under a shroud of magically induced blackness, invisible to normal eyes beyond a few feet. The fire-haired woman stood nearby, watching Conan and the mage of the White Square mount their horses. She cursed softly as the men rode away, angry with the fates for delaying her transit.

What had happened was all too apparent, from the corpses of the demi-whelves scattered about. There had been an attack, and the girl of Fire now belonged to the beasts of the ground, and therefore shortly to Sovartus. Ah, to have come so close, only to be thwarted!

Djuvula considered her options. She could still have the heart of the barbarian, no small comfort. And, possibly, she might still somehow bask in the glow of Sovartus’s victory; he was, after all, a man, and prey to the same desires as all men not infirm or perverted. Sovartus was known to be many things, but a lover of boys was not among them, so Djuvula had heard. And she doubted not her skills in that arena.

Yes. Best to continue onward. She returned to the wagon and climbed onto the driver’s bench.

In the darkness, hidden by a dry and sparse bush soon to become a tumbleweed, the panther who had been a man watched the woman who was a witch mount her shrouded wagon and depart. A normal cat’s eyes were sharp in the night, and this particular cat had vision far better than normal in addition to a mind belonging to a man. True, the brain was going savage, so that in time the panther would be no more than a beast; still, there remained a strong gleam of manlike intelligence ruling the animal. And that intelligence had just seen its two greatest enemies depart.

There seemed hardly any choice but to follow. The witch he could not attack directly, but there might be some way to cause her downfall. The barbarian was but a man, and even with a magical knife he could be surprised and taken.

For the first time since he had become a panther for life, Lemparius felt a surge of pure happiness.

The cold dish of vengeance grew warmer.

In the highest tower of Castle Slott preparations were being made. Black-robed and cowled figures moved around the room, attending to the desires of Sovartus. Under three of the room’s four windows, two sons and a daughter of Hogistum had been chained. Three of the Four Elements were present, the last due soon.

Sovartus moved away from the fourth window, where he had been watching the quiet plain of Dodligia. The formerly agitated Elements now stood quiet, almost as if in anticipation of Sovartus’s final victory. No breeze stirred; no ground trembled; no rain fell.