Conan the Invincible Page 3

  The inner room was barren for a mage’s workchamber—no piles of human bones to stoke unholy fires, no dessicated husks of mummies to be ground into noxious powders—but what little there was permeated the chamber with bone-chilling horror. At either end of a long table, thin, greasy plumes of smoke arose from two black candles, the tallow rendered from the body of a virgin strangled with her mother’s hair and made woman after death by her father. Between them lay a book bound in human skin, a grimoire filled with secrets darker than any outside of Stygia itself and a glass, fluid-filled simulation of a human womb, within which floated the misshapen form of one unborn.

  Before the table Imhep-Aton made arcane gestures, muttered incantations known to but a handful human. The homunculus twitched within the pellucid womb. Agony twisted its deformed face as the pitiful jaws creaked painfully open.

  “Who calls?”

  Despite the gurgling distortion of that hollow cry, there was an imperiousness to it that told Imhep-Aton who spoke across the countless miles from ancient Khemi, in Stygia, through another such monstrosity. Thoth-Amon, master mage of the Black Ring.

  “It is I, Imhep-Aton. All is in readiness. Soon Amanar will be cast into the outer dark.”

  “Then Amanar still lives. And the One Whose Name May Not Be Spoken yet profanes the honor of Set. Remember your part, and your blame, and your fate, should you fail.”

  Sweat dampened Imhep-Aton’s forehead. It had been he who brought Amanar into the Black Ring. He remembered once seeing a renegade priest given to Set in a dark chamber far beneath Khemi, and swallowed bile.

  “I will not fail,” he muttered, then forced strength into his words so the homunculus could hear and transmit. “I will not fail. That which I came to secure will be in my hands in five days. Amanar and the One Whose Name May Not Be Spoken will be delivered into the power of Set.”

  “That you are given this chance of redemption is not of my will. If you fail … .”

  “There will be no failure. An ignorant barbarian thief who knows no more of reality than a gold coin will—”

  The horrible, hollow voice from the twisted shape in the glass vessel cut him off. “I care naught for your methods. Set cares naught. Succeed, or pay.”

  The grotesque mouth snapped shut, and the homunuculus curled tighter into a fetal ball. The communication was ended.

  Imhep-Aton scrubbed damp palms down the front of his purple robe. Some measure of what had been sucked out of him these minutes past, he could regain at the expense of the two girls awaiting his desires. But they knew their place in the scheme of things, if not the brevity of that place. There was little to be gained from such. Not so the thief. The Cimmerian thought himself Imhep-Aton’s equal, if not, from some strange barbarian perspective, his superior. The mere fact that he was alive would remind the mage of this time when he stank with fear-sweat. Once the pendants were safely in hand this Conan would find not gold, but death, as his payment.

  IV

  The alabaster walls of Tiridates’ palace stood five times the height of a man, and atop them guardsmen of the King’s Own marched sentry rounds in gilded half-armor and horsehair-crested helms. Within, when the sun was high, peacocks strutted among flowers from lands beyond the ken of man, the hours were struck on silver gongs, and silken maids danced for the pleasure of the drunkard king. Now, in the purple night, ivory towers with corbeled arches and golden-finialed domes pierced the sky in silent stillness.

  Conan watched from the shadows around the plaza that surrounded the palace, counting the steps of guards as they moved toward each other, then away. His boots and cloak were in the sack slung at his side, muffling any clank of the tools of his trade. His sword was strapped across his back, the hilt rising above his right shoulder, and the Karpashian dagger was sheathed on his left forearm. He held a rope of black-dyed raw silk, on the end of which dangled a padded graponel.

  As the guards before him met once more and turned to move apart, he broke from the shadows. His bare feet made almost no sound on the gray paving stones of the plaza. He began to swing the graponel as he ran. There would be little time before the guards reached the ends of their rounds and turned back. He reached the foot of the pale wall, and a heave of his massive arm sent the graponel skyward into the night. It caught with a muted click. Tugging once at the rope to test it, he swarmed up the wall as another man might climb a stair.

  Wriggling flat onto the top of the wall, he stared at the graponel and heaved a sigh of relief. One point had barely caught the lip of the wall, and a scrape on the stone showed how it had slipped. A finger’s breadth more … . But he had no time for these reflections. Hurriedly he pulled the sable rope up, and dropped into the garden below. He hit rolling, to absorb the fall, and came up in rustling bushes against the wall.

  Above, the guards came closer, their footsteps thudding on the stone. Conan held his breath. If they noticed the scrape, an alarm would surely be raised. The guards came together, muttered words were exchanged, and they began to move apart. He waited until the sounds of their going had faded, then he was off, massive muscles working, in a loping stride past ferns that towered above his head and pale-flowered vines that rustled where there was no breeze.

  Across the garden a peacock called, like the plaintive cry of a woman. Conan cursed whoever had wandered out to wake the bird from its roosting. Such noises were likely to draw the guards’ attentions. He redoubled his pace. There was need to be inside before anyone came to check.

  Experience had taught him that the higher he was above a ground-level entrance, the more likely anyone who saw him was to think he had a right there. If he were moving from a lower level to a higher, he might be challenged, but from a higher to a lower, never. An observer thought him servant or bodyguard returning from his master to his quarters below, and thought no more on it. It was thus his practice to enter any building at as high a level as he could. Now, as he ran, his eyes searched the carven white marble wall of the palace ahead, seeking those balconies that showed no light. Near the very roof of the palace, a hundred feet and more above the garden, he found the darkened balcony he sought.

  The pale marble of the palace wall had been worked in the form of leafy vines, providing a hundred grips for fingers and toes. For one who had played on the cliffs of Cimmeria as a boy, it was as good as a path. As he swung his leg over the marble balustrade of the balcony, the peacock cried again, and this time its cry was cut off abruptly. Conan peered down to where the guardsmen made their rounds. Still they seemed to notice nothing amiss. But it would be well to get the pendants in hand and be away as quickly as possible. Whatever fool was wandering about —and perhaps silencing peacocks—must surely rouse the sentries given time.

  He pushed quickly through the heavy damask curtains that screened the balcony and halfway across the darkened room before he realized his mistake. He was not alone. Breath caught in a canopied, gauze-hung bed, and someone stirred in the sheets.

  The Karpashian dagger appeared in his fist as he gathered himself and sprang for the bed. Silken gauze as fine as spun cobwebs ripped away before him, and he grappled with the bed’s occupant, his wild charge carrying them both onto the marble mosaic floor. Abruptly he became aware that the flesh he wrestled with, though firm, was yielding beneath his iron grip, and there was a sweet scent of flowery perfume. He tore away the silk sheets to see more clearly who it was that struggled so futilely against him.

  First bared were long, shapely legs, kicking wildly, then rounded hips, a tiny waist, and finally a pretty face filled with dark, round eyes that stared at him fearfully above the fingers he locked instantly over her mouth. She wore a silver-mounted black stone that dangled between her small, shapely breasts, and beyond that was concealed only by dark, waist-long hair.

  “Who are you, girl?” He loosened his grip to let her speak, but kept his hand poised in case she took it into her head to scream.

  She swallowed, and a small, pink tongue licked her ripe lips. “I am called Ve
lita, noble sir. I’m only a slave girl. Please do not hurt me.”

  “I won’t hurt you.” He cast a quick eye around the tapestry-draped bedchamber for something convenient to bind her with. She could not be left free to raise an alarm. It came to him that these were not the sleeping quarters of a slave girl. “What are you doing here, Velita? Are you meeting someone? The truth, now.”

  “No one, I swear.” Her voice faltered, and her head dropped. “The king chose me out, but in the end he preferred a youth from Corinthia. I could not return to the zenana. I wish I were back in Aghrapur.”

  “Aghrapur! Are you one of the dancing girls sent by Yildiz?”

  Her small head tossed angrily. “I was the best dancer at the court of Yildiz. He had no call to give me away.” Suddenly she gasped. “You do not belong here! Are you a thief? Please! I will be yours if you free me from this catamite king.”

  Conan smiled. The idea had amusement value, this stealing of a dancing girl from the king’s palace. Slight as she was, she would be no inconsiderable burden to carry over the palace wall, but he had pride of his youth and strength.

  “I’ll take you with me, Velita, but I have no desire to own slaves. I’ll set you free to go where you will, and with a hundred pieces of gold, as well. This I swear by Crom, and by Bel, god of thieves.” A generous gesture, he reflected, but he could well afford it. It would still leave nine thousand nine hundred for himself, after all.

  Velita’s lower lip trembled. “You aren’t making sport of me, are you? Oh, to be free.” Her slender arms snaked around him tightly. “I will serve you, I swear, and dance for you, and—”

  For a moment he enjoyed the pleasant pressure of her firm breasts against his chest, then drew himself back to the matter at hand.

  “Enough, girl. Help me obtain what I came for, and you need do no more. You know the pendants that came with you to Tiridates?”

  “Surely. See, here is one.” She pulled the silver chain from around her neck and thrust it into his hands.

  He turned it over curiously. His time as a thief had given him some knowledge in the value of such things. The silver mounting and chain were of good workmanship, but plain. As for the stone … . An ebon oval as long as the top joint of his forefinger, it had the smooth feel of a pearl, but was not. Red flecks seemed to appear near the surface and dart into great depths. Abruptly he tore his gaze from the pendant.

  “What are you doing with this, Velita? I was told they were displayed in a golden casket in the antechamber of the throne room.”

  “The casket is there, but Tiridates likes us to dance for him wearing them. We wear them this night.”

  Conan sat back on his heels, replacing his dagger in its sheath. “Can you fetch the other girls here, Velita?”

  She shook her head. “Yasmeen and Susa are with officers of the guard, Consela with a steward, and Aramit with a counselor. As the king has little interest in women, the others take their pleasure. Does … does this mean you will not take me with you?”

  “I said I would,” he snapped. He hefted the pendant on his palm. Ankar would likely not pay any part of the ten thousand for one pendant, but to gather the other four from women scattered throughout the palace, each in the company of a man, was clearly impossible. Reluctantly he replaced the silver chain about her neck. “I will take you away, but I fear you must remain another night yet.”

  “Another night? If I must, I will. But why?”

  “Tomorrow night at this hour I will come again to this room. You must gather the pendants here, with the other girls or without. I cannot carry more than one of you over the wall, but I’ll not harm them, I promise.”

  Velita worried her lower lip with small, white teeth. “They care not, so long as their cage be gold,” she muttered. “There’s risk in what you ask.”

  “There is. If you cannot do it, say so. I’ll take you away tonight, and get what I can for the single piece.”

  For a moment longer she knelt frowning among the tangled sheets. “You risk your life, I but a whipping. I will do it. What—”

  He planted a hand over her mouth as the door of the darkened room opened. A mailed man entered, the red-dyed crest of a captain on his helm, blinking in the dimness. He was even taller than Conan, though perhaps a finger less broad of shoulder.

  “Where are you, wench?” the captain chuckled, moving deeper into the room. Conan waited, letting him come closer. “I know you’re here, you hot-bodied little vixen. A chamberlain saw you flee red-faced hence from our good king’s chambers. You need a true man to assuage your — What!”

  Conan launched himself at the large man as the other jumped back, clawing for his sword. One of the Cimmerian’s big hands clutched the captain’s sword wrist, the other seized his throat beneath a bearded chin. He could afford no outcry, not even such as the man might make after a dagger was lodged twixt his ribs.

  Chest to chest the two big men stood, feet working for leverage on the mosaic arabesques of the floor. The guardsman’s free hand clubbed against the back of Conan’s neck, and again. The Cimmerian released his grip on the man’s throat, throwing that arm around the Zamoran to hold him close. At the same instant he let go the sword wrist, snaked his hand under that arm and behind the other’s shoulder to grab the bearded chin. His arms corded with the strain of forcing the helmeted head back. The tall soldier abandoned his attempt to reach his sword and suddenly grasped Conan’s head with both his hands, twisting with all his might.

  Conan’s breath rasped in his throat, and the blood pounded in his ears. He could smell his own sweat, and that of the Zamoran. A growl built deep in his throat. He forced the man’s head back. Back. Abruptly there was an audible snap, and the guardsman was a dead weight sagging on his chest.

  Panting, Conan let the man fall. The helmeted head was at an impossible angle.

  “You’ve killed him,” Velita breathed. “You’ve … I recognize him. That’s Mariates, a captain of the guard. When he’s found here … .”

  “He won’t be,” Conan answered.

  Quickly he dragged the body out onto the balcony and dug his rope out of the sack at his side. It would stretch but halfway to the ground. Hooking the graponel over the stone balustrade at the side of the balcony, he let the dark rope fall.

  “When I whistle, Velita, unloose this.”

  He bound the dead guardsman’s wrists with the man’s own swordbelt, and thrust his head and right arm through the loop they formed. When he straightened, the man dangled down his back like a sack. A heavy sack. He reminded himself of the ten thousand pieces of gold.

  “What are you doing?” she asked. “And what’s your name? I don’t even know that.”

  “I’m making sure the body isn’t found in this room.” He stepped over the rail and checked the graponel again. It wouldn’t do to have it slip here. Clad in naught but the pendant, Velita stood watching him, her big dark eyes tremulous. “I am Conan of Cimmeria,” he said proudly, and let himself down the rope hand over hand.

  Almost immediately he felt the strain in his massive arms and shoulders. He was strong, but the Zamoran was no feather, and a dead weight besides. His bound wrists dug into Conan’s throat, but there was no way to shift the burden while dangling half a hundred feet in the night air.

  With a mountaineer’s practiced eye he studied distances and angles, and stopped his descent in a stretch of the carven wall free of balconies. Thrusting with his powerful legs he pushed himself sideways, walking two steps along the wall, then swinging back beyond the point where he began. Then back the other way again. He stepped up the pace until he was running along the wall, swinging in an ever greater arc. At first the dead Zamoran slowed him, but then the extra weight added to his momentum, taking him closer to his goal, another balcony below and to the right of the first.

  He was ten paces from the niveous stone rail. Then five. Three. And he realized he was increasing his arc too little on each swing now. He could not climb back up the rope—the guardsman’s
wrists were half-strangling him—nor could he continue to inch his way closer.

  He swung back to his left and began his sideways run toward the balcony. It was the last time, he knew as he watched his goal materialize out of the dark. He must make it this time, or fall. Ten paces. Five. Three. Two. He was going to fall short. Desperately he thrust against the enchased marble wall, loosed one hand from the rope, stretched for the rail. His fingers caught precariously. And held. Straining, he hung between the rope and his tenuous grasp on the stone. The dangling body choked his burning breath in his throat. Shoulder joints cracking, he pulled himself nearer. And then he had a foot between the balusters. Still clutching the rope he pulled himself over the rail and collapsed on the cool marble, sucking at the night air.

  It was an illusory haven, though. Quickly he freed himself from the Zamoran and bent back over the rail to whistle. The rope swung as the graponel fell free. He drew it up with grateful thanks that Velita had not been too terrified to remember, and stowed it in his sack. There was still Mariates to deal with.

  Mariates’ sword belt went back about the officer’s waist. There was naught Conan could do about the abrasions on the man’s wrists. On the side away from Velita’s balcony, he rolled the dead man over the rail. From below came the crashing of broken branches. But no alarm.

  Smiling, Conan used the carven marble foliage to make his way to the ground. Evidence of Mariates’ fall was plain in shattered boughs. The captain himself lay spreadeagled across an exotic shrub, the loss of which Conan thought the dilettante king might regret more than the loss of a soldier. And best of all, of the several balconies from which the man could have fallen, Velita’s was not one.

  Swiftly Conan made his way back through the garden. Once more the guards’ paces were counted, and once more he went over the wall easily. As he reached the safety of the shadows around the plaza, he thought he heard a shout from behind, but he was not sure, and he did not linger to find out. Boots and cloak were on in moments, sword slung at his hip.