Conan The Fearless (21 page)

Unless-unless Vitarius had some hidden focus? Some trick he concealed to spring upon an unwary opponent?

Sovartus rubbed at his face with one hand. Yes. That must be it. The old man has some hidden card: he had to have such. Best I find out what it is before I do anything that might turn back upon me, Sovartus thought. A probe, to see how Vitarius reacts.

Sovartus smiled, pleased with his sharpness of wit. And he had just the thing to try upon his old training mate. Just the thing … .

Dawn approached, but darkness still reigned when Vitarius once again motioned for Conan to halt. The two men had only a short distance left before reaching the base of Sovartus’s mountain-castle, and Conan had hoped they might do so without further incident. He was wrong.

Vitarius said, “Our enemy is about to task us. And it will be no small thing this time. I think it better that we should part, Conan. You must ride for the castle; I shall try to occupy Sovartus while you search for the children. And Kinna. May the White protect you, Conan of Cimmeria.”

Conan slapped at the hilt of his sword. “I will put my faith elsewhere, old one. But I wish you good luck. I will return with the children and Kinna as soon as I can.”

The old mage nodded, and waved one aged hand. He alighted from his horse and sat cross-legged upon the ground.

Conan spared him a final glance before turning his attention-and his horse-back toward Castle Slott.

Djuvula felt a prickling on her skin as she drew near the old magician. The air was full of anticipatory flux, presaging some magical production. Even within her concealing shroud of darkness she felt a chill touch her.

She was nearly past the old man, who sat upon the bare ground with his eyes closed when he called out. Djuvula started at his words.

“Ho, witch; best if you depart this area quickly. There is apt to be some spillage from my coming confrontation with Sovartus.”

Djuvula almost spoke, then thought better of it. Could he really see her?

Vitarius answered her unspoken thought. “Aye, I have known you followed us for some time, witch. And I know, too, of that which shadows you. Whatever your purpose, you would be better served to turn around and flee. My sense of future is very dim for the most part; but in this instance I see ruin for many near to this venture.”

Djuvula stared at the White magician. What did he mean, that which shadows me? And what of his ill prophecy? Djuvula’s chill intensified, and she glanced around the edge of her wagon, searching for any pursuer. She saw none.

No point in maintaining the cloaking spell, she knew. She allowed the shroud to dissipate. For a moment she considered what the old man had said. She decided to ignore him. He was about to receive the brunt of Sovartus’s magical ire; he was no threat to her. And, more important, the barbarian no longer had the White to look after him.

The witch grinned. Conan would have gone on ahead to the castle. Djuvula still knew not why, but that was where she would find him. She popped her whip at the horses.

The White mage never opened his eyes, but he spoke three words as Djuvula drove past, three words that touched her as might a fiery brand upon her flesh: “You were warned.”

The first gleamings of morning light found Conan staring at the entrance to a large cave in Castle Slott’s mountain base. The hole in the rock was easily large enough for a mounted man to enter, a perfect, open invitation at the end of the trail leading to the wizard’s home.

Conan grinned. The cave mouth was, if anything, too perfect and too open. His experience as a thief had taught him many things, not the least of which was to beware of things that looked too good to be true. His memories of the easy stroll into the home of Senator Lemparius were all too fresh in his mind; only a fool refused to learn from his mistakes. Conan of Cimmeria would not march into what must be a trap.

How else to enter the mountain, then? He smiled and looked up at the wall of craggy rock. He was, after all, a Cimmerian; mountains had yet to be made that could not be climbed, especially by those hardy northern people from whom Conan had been bred. He would go up, and he would find a way.

Before he did, however, Conan was curious about some thing his sharp senses detected in a stand of trees not far from where he now sat on his horse. There came the sounds of pent animals, and the odor of beasts tainted the morning air.

He slid from his mount and used a large rock to peg the animal’s bridle to the ground. Moving with catlike grace, the big man went to see what lay within the cover of the trees.

Horses: A corral full of them milled about, guarded by a single man wearing a hooded black robe and holding a long staff. To one end of the enclosure sat a wattle-and-daub stable, with piles of hay and grain within.

From the cover of a thick-leaved bush Conan’s grin stretched as wide as it got. Well, well, well.

The Cimmerian backed away from the corral. He would certainly return here when he had done his business with Sovartus; for now, however, he must finish that business.

Conan removed the bridle and unsaddled his mount, allowing the animal to graze among the sedge. No telling how long his errand might take, and there was no point in the horse suffering while his master was gone. He hid the mount’s gear carefully, taking only a skin of wine and some dried meat for supplies. He made certain his sword and Lemparius’s knife were securely in place, then approached the outcrops of the mountain. Pausing only to remove his sandals, he began his climb.

Sovartus was seated near his talisman table, working the intricate spell of the Rain of Cosmic Fire, from the unholy book called the Zilbermankarikatur, the use of which nearly always brought ruination to its object. That powerful and cursed energy now focused upon Vitarius of the White Square, a shower of annihilation that rarely failed.

Let’s see you escape this time, old classmate!

One of his black hoods arrived then, and interrupted Sovartus’s gloatings. The shrouded form bowed low and pointed speechlessly. Sovartus turned to see what the hooded servant wished him to see.

A brace of demi-whelves stood there, looking nervous at being inside Castle Slott. More important, however, was the child held between them: It was her! The Child of Fire, his, at last!

So taken by this vision was Sovartus, that at first he did not notice the young woman standing near to the girl. When he did, Sovartus asked, “And who are you?”

The woman drew herself up stiffly. “I am Kinna, half-sister to those children you have stolen!”

Sovartus smiled, to reveal teeth as white as bleached bone. “Ah,” he said, “then you are sister to me as well.”

“Nay, black-souled warlock, I am not! Stepsister, perhaps, and that reluctantly.”

Sovartus swept his gaze over the girl’s comely form.

“No matter,” he said. “I am certain I can find some good use for you, dear. But later we can discuss our mutual pleasure; for now I have other matters to which I must attend.” The wizard clapped his hands, and more hooded figures appeared. Sovartus pointed to the girl. “You two, take Eldia to join her brothers and sister.” To Eldia he said, “I have been waiting for you since you were born, girl. You will no doubt enjoy meeting your long-lost kin-for a few moments anyway.”

Kinna said, “What are you going to do with them?”

Sovartus shrugged. “After they are drained of the essences I need, I shall have no further use for them. Magically, that is. I suppose I can devise some entertainment utilizing such tender things.”

He waved at the remaining hoods. “Take her to a lockroom; see that she is well fed and made comfortable against my future use.” To the two demi-whelves Sovartus said, “You may depart. And see that you advise the whelves that it would be wise to descend to your lowest tunnels for a time; the surface of Dodligia Plain will not be a healthy place to be in a few hours.”

Sovartus spun, his robe flaring widely as he started for the tower. At last! At last!

The morning sun shone brightly, but not so brightly as the conflagration spraying from the skies onto Dodligia Plain. The panther had to swing wide to avoid the fires. Had he worn a man’s body, the cat would have cursed; this would delay him, and he had already done one stupid thing by falling asleep at the wrong time. This act had allowed the witch to pull away from him. There had been no help for it; even his supernormal panther abilities had limits, and he had been stretching them for days, resting and eating little. He now thought to hurry and catch Djuvula, only this magical assault upon the empty plain slowed him again-

Wait. The plain was not empty. Squinting against the splashes of brilliant red and orange, the panther saw a seated figure, protected from the incandescent air by a shimmering white glow. The old magician? It must be, though the eyes of the feline watcher were not efficient enough to discern such details amid the surrounding brightness.

But, as the panther-who-had-been-a-man looked, the seated figure managed to stand. It raised one arm, and the hand seemed to ignite with a cooler flame, more blue than red. The flame grew into a ball half the size of the figure, then an indigo beam shot out, undimmed and unhampered by the fiery rain. The line of glowing energy arced away from its generator and splashed against the mountain with the castle atop it, creating a fountain of blue sparks where it hit.

The panther turned and loped away. He wanted no part of this, whatever it was. He had his own problems that must be attended to, and they did not include being fried by an angry wizard.

Djuvula stood by the cave, staring into the darkness. That it would be guarded she was certain; that she would try to pass those guards unaided she was certain she would not. The way inside meant risk, for Sovartus would have his privacy even from those who walked the Black Path, as did he. Her strength was hardly a match for one so steeped in thaumaturgy as was Sovartus. Womanly wiles would avail her little over the hooded ones who served the master of the Black Square, since these were not born of woman and were not equipped as men who might desire women. But there was a way: The hooded ones had weak minds and could be commanded by only a medium-complex spell. This she could do, though Sovartus would hardly approve. Still, the fastest and safest way into Castle Slott would be with an escort of those who guarded it. And one of those creatures stood near a corral of horses only a short distance away.

Djuvula went to her wagon to prepare the proper spell.

Conan clung to a sheer rock face, his fingers and bare feet clutching at the narrowest of cracks like a human fly. Just above, another body length, gaped a narrow entrance to what seemed a small cave. Likely just what he searched for, he thought.

The Cimmerian had climbed to a fair height-he was at least the spans of thirty large men from the ground, and a fall from here would certainly be fatal. He was not afraid, since falling from a climb had never worried him greatly. He had first climbed only shortly after learning to walk, and grown Cimmerians seldom fell from their cold mountains.

As Conan reached for a new fingerhold, however, a sudden jolt shook the mountain, as if it were struck by a giant’s fist. The Cimmerian caught only a short peripheral glimpse of blue fire splashing against the rocks a dozen arm spans above him; then he was too busy trying to maintain his precarious grip upon the mountain’s face. One hand slipped, and the vibration from the rock cast his feet away. For a moment Conan hung by the tips of four fingers, and only his great strength saved him from a deadly drop. He spent no energy in cursing, but snaked his feet against the rock, scrabbling for purchase with his toes. In a moment he managed to dig his toes into a fault; his left hand found an outcrop of rock and clamped onto it. Safe again, for the moment, at least.

Conan began to climb quickly, his earlier tiredness gone. He knew not what the blue light had been, nor did he care; he wished only to be in a more secure place soon. What happened once could happen again, and the next time the blue fire might be closer or stronger.

With that thought as a spur. Conan reached the lip of the ledge bounding the cave. He pulled himself onto the wide ledge and paused to take several deep breaths. Then he untied his sandals from his belt and pulled them on.

Now, to see where this cave led. He drew his sword and stepped into the darkness.

Sovartus started as the floor beneath his feet shook suddenly. He looked at the four children, each chained under a window of the tower room. There flowed no real power from them toward him, though the new girl strived to turn him into ash with her thoughts. His skill was proof against that; besides, the force assailing his castle came from without-

Vitarius! He had forgotten the mage of the White Square in his joy at collecting the child. Sovartus cast his perception forth, feeling for the old man.

Yes, it had been Vitarius who had sent a tongue of White magic at Slott. He was indeed much stronger than Sovartus had thought. The Cosmic Fire fell upon him, and still he had sufficient force to attack. Amazing.

Briefly, Sovartus considered his response. It galled him that his castle should be attacked. On the other hand, the castle could withstand much worse without major damage; and, of course, he had more important things to do. Yes, to be certain, he had not the time to waste upon Vitarius.

Let Vitarius rail against him: it would not matter shortly. Once the Thing of Power came into being, all of the White Square combined could not stand against it. He would ignore the old mage. When he was done with his business, he would crush Vitarius with less effort than a man would expend to swat a mosquito.

Sovartus strode to his talisman table and laid his hands upon it. He uttered the first part of the phrase he had memorized a decade past. The table began to glow redly.

When he spoke the second part of the phrase, the four children moaned softly, surrounded by that same infernal glow. Sovartus smiled, and it was all he could do to keep from laughing.

Conan felt the mountain shake again, but the force seemed weaker this time. Perhaps it was because he was inside.