Conan The Fearless (9 page)

Kinna seemed to note Conan’s interest and tried to move the blanket to cover her limbs; this action allowed more of her upper body an air bath, however, including a glimpse of her full breasts before she hurriedly recovered them.

Conan grinned. “Why are you about at this hour?”

“I-I heard a noise at my window. A strange sound.”

“We are three floors from the ground,” Conan said. “It is less than likely anything could be playing at your shutters. The wind, no doubt.”

Kinna nodded, sending a ripple through her long black hair. “So I thought. Once awake, I could not find sleep again. So I came out here to …” She trailed off and looked embarrassed.

“To what?” Conan asked, curious.

Kinna glanced down the hallway toward the night chamber, colored briefly, but spoke not.

Conan followed her gaze, then understood. Ah, women. To be embarrassed by such a thing as a visit to the night chamber was a thing he had never understood. Everyone had the same natural need; why should it bother anyone?

The silence between them grew, stretching to awkwardness. Conan felt no need to fill the quiet with words; still, he was awake and fully alert. So he said, “This noise did not disturb your sister or Vitarius?”

“No. She sleeps the sleep of the innocent, and he rests as though practicing for his Final Slumber.”

“Ah. Since I am up, perhaps you would like me to examine your window for the source of this noise?”

Conan saw sudden relief in her eyes, but it was quickly replaced with a more cynical glint. “Nay. Do not trouble yourself on our account. I would not delay your journey to Nemedia.” She sounded angry.

Conan shrugged. “As you wish.” He turned to go back into his room.

“Wait,” Kinna said, touching his shoulder with one hand. Her touch was warm against his skin. “Forgive me. I offer rudeness where none is deserved. Eldia told me how you saved her from the assassin in this place earlier, and I myself saw you stand between her and the demon. I cannot blame you for wishing to go about your own life instead of continuing to risk it for our sakes.”

Conan looked at her. She was a most attractive woman; she also kept her hand on his arm.

“I would like you to inspect my window after all.” She smiled. “And, perhaps, afterward, we might also inspect the shutters in … your room?”

For a moment Conan failed to understand. He nearly blurted out that nothing was wrong with his shutters. Then he saw Kinna’s smile, and he understood. He returned her grin. “Aye,” he said.

Conan stepped lightly over the recumbent form of Eldia and around that of Vitarius, using the light of the taper Kinna held. He reached the shuttered window and looked at it. Nothing amiss there. He turned toward Kinna, already anticipating the short trip across the hall to his room. “Shield the flame,” he commanded in a whisper. With that, Conan opened the shutters and stared into the rainy night.

Lightning flared twice in quick succession, driving away the darkness and giving the barbarian a good view of the walls and lower rooftops nearby. Save the storm, the night was empty as far as he could tell. He started to close the slatted wood strips.

The inn began to rattle, as might a wall under a barrage of rocks by small boys; Conan felt his hands and arms pelted, and he muttered a quick oath.

Startled, Kinna said, “What-?”

“Hail,” Conan answered. “As big as grapes.”

The clatter increased, and a sudden fierce blast of wind and ice tore the shutters from Conan’s loose grasp. “Bel’s eyes!” Conan leaned out and reached for the free-swinging shutters, receiving a pounding of hailstones for his trouble. He managed to snare one of the shutters and was reaching for the second when the wind slackened and the hail stopped. The rain continued to fall in heavy sheets, and there came a sound, louder because of the relative silence following the stoppage of hail. At first Conan thought the new sound thunder, but he quickly discarded that notion; the noise was continuous.

Kinna joined the Cimmerian at the window. “What is that?”

Conan shook his head. “I know not-” he began. Then the lightning flashed again and revealed the source of the rumble: A tornado approached, twisting through the city, destroying everything in its path. The rampaging funnel looked to be heading directly toward the inn.

Someone moved behind Conan. Vitarius’s voice cut through the wind and rain. “What do you see out there?”

Conan pointed wordlessly. The lightning seemed to have stopped for the moment, but there was no need of it; within the funnel of the tornado discharges played almost continuously, giving the twirling wind a bluish-yellow glow of its own, a ghostly, eerie luminescence unlike anything Conan had ever observed. “Crom,” Conan said softly, “a devilwind.”

Vitarius took in the sight. “Of that you may be certain, but it is no natural thing. Watch how it moves in a straight line along its path; no ordinary spinner does that. What you see before you is Sovartus’s doing. He unleashes the power of Air against us. Fire will not stop it. We must flee, or when the storm leaves, it will bear us with it!”

Kinna leaped to rouse Eldia while Vitarius gathered up his pack containing his magical gear. Conan continued to watch the tornado cut an arrow’s line toward the inn.

“We need a cellar or sewer,” Conan said.

“Not for this storm,” Vitarius said, shouldering his pack. “It will simply stand and dig us out like moles. Our only hope is to get behind it; even Sovartus and his control of Air cannot reverse the direction of a storm so easily. We must move at angles to the wind and then into it before the funnel can tack to find us.”

The four made their way down the dark stairs and into the main room of the inn. A pair of guttering fat lamps cast their luminous flux over the dank walls, giving enough light for Conan to see the exit. “This way,” he commanded.

At that instant the door opened and a half-dozen men burst into the room. Each was armed either with a sword or long dagger; several of the rough lot bore ropes as well. The man leading wore an eyepatch, but there was nothing wrong with his remaining eye, for he jerked to a halt and pointed at Conan. “There he be, boys. Come to save us a climb, I reckons. “

Blades flashed in the faint lamplight as the six men moved apart from one another and toward Conan. The Cimmerian never paused to wonder at the cause of this new danger; he merely drew his own broadsword and moved to meet it.

“Time, Conan, we do not have time!” Vitarius waved his hands vaguely in the air.

Conan grinned tightly, but did not look away from his adversaries. “I shall hurry as best I can.”

Two of the men blocked the exit; the rest fanned out, trying to encircle Conan. The barbarian grinned. This was his kind of fight, steel and muscle, not magic. He picked a target, a wolf-faced man bearing a short sword. Conan hesitated not an instant, but sprang with feral grace at the man, swinging the broadsword in a two-handed sweep across his body. Wolf-face raised his blade, but too slowly; Conan’s cut tore a furrow across the man’s throat which showed for an instant the villain’s spine. The man gurgled and fell backward.

A second man attacked Conan from the rear, swinging his sword overhead in a body-splitter strike. Conan turned and blocked, tensing the sinews of his thick arm. Steel kissed steel, and the two blades sang together; Conan’s arm moved not at all, and the man lost his balance as he recovered from the failed stroke. Conan slid forward, the point of his weapon leading, and skewered the back-striker just under the breastbone. Conan raised one foot and shoved the falling body from his blade with his boot. He spun, to face two more attackers moving in together. Conan set himself to spring; better to attack before they could gather their wits to coordinate themselves-four was the most dangerous number of opponents.

The inn shook then, as if swatted by a giant’s hand.

“Conan! The devil-wind!” That from Kinna.

“Ow, I’m cut!” one of the men guarding the door screamed in pain, drawing the attention of the pair set to attack Conan.

The Cimmerian looked that way, to see little Eldia hacking away at the man with her weapon. Her speed was dazzling, and the man bore only a long dagger, with which he was ineffectually trying to protect his legs. Even as Conan watched, the girl darted in and sliced the man’s leg again.

“Brat!” the man yelled, but he backed away from the door, nearly bumping into his fellow.

Vitarius was trying to work some kind of spell, Conan saw, mumbling and waving his arms; there was no effect apparent to the brawny Cimmerian. He turned back to the two men facing him and moved on them, weaving a deadly pattern of razor-sharp edges.

The man with the eyepatch tried to circle outside Conan’s reach, but the Cimmerian followed him, avoiding the second man, who was too fat to move quickly. The fat man was breathing hard as he tried to bring his sword into play against Conan’s side.

The inn shook again, and the sound of the wind and fight was joined by that of voices yelling from up the stair. With a howl of joy Conan jumped for One-eye, blade whirling.

Loganaro watched the approach of destruction, feet frozen by his awe. Never in all his travels had he seen such a storm; that it was unnatural seemed all too obvious. Who had sent the terrible whirlwind, and why, also flitted across his mind, but that thought was quickly chased away by the fear of dying amid a hail of debris. His cutthroats could look to themselves for survival; the barbarian was not so important as living for a short time more. Loganaro turned and sprinted away from the oncoming disaster. He would worry about what to tell Lemparius later.

Djuvula was nearly home when she saw the magically created monster wind rip its way through the maze of Mornstadinos like a ferret seeking a particular rat. Her occult eye immediately noted the storm for what it was, and it was only the work of a second to realize by whom it had been sent, as well. Hurriedly, the witch turned and began to run back toward the inn, splashing through the gutters and driving rain. If Sovartus’s tame whirlwind collected the girl, Djuvula would lose a chance to increase her powers. More, there was the brave-hearted barbarian to consider. Of course, he was less important; Loganaro had another candidate for her, but of his opinion she was less than certain. Any man who could take the hand from a demon and survive had to be more than ordinary. But the girl was paramount in her interest.

Stalking in the wake of destruction walked a giant figure, unseen by the eyes of men. Red the figure was, and one-handed. It muttered to itself as it walked, the rumble of its voice merging with the thunder. “You think wrongly, magician, if you think to cheat me of my revenge by employing other means to your evil ends. I will have this man!”

The walls of the Milk of Wolves Inn began to moan, as if in anticipation of their destruction. The exit door was blown open violently, tearing itself nearly from its crusty brass hinges; the sign marking the name of the place crashed to the ground and pinwheeled through the open doorway. The wolf salient had finally leaped; it came to rest against a table.

Conan had backed One-eye into a corner, and the man was fighting for his life. The pair of blackguards with daggers had been driven from the doorway by Eldia’s small but deadly sword, assisted by the dagger of her sister; finally, Vitarius must have managed to get some kind of magic to work, for the fat assassin screamed as he began to glow redly, and to float half a span from the floor.

Vitarius yelled, to be heard over the heavy thunder created by the whirlwind which was nearly upon them.

“Conan! We must leave! Now!”

The Cimmerian made no answer, but lunged instead at One-eye. The man managed to block the sword, but in so doing, opened his head to attack. Conan curled the fingers of his right hand into a huge fist and slammed it against the man’s jaw. The bone snapped and the man was flung half his length backward. to smack into the now-vibrating wall. He slid to the floor, unconscious. Conan turned. “Go! Get out!”

Vitarius obeyed, leaving the fat man floating and screaming. Eldia and Kinna backed away from the two cutthroats with daggers, who showed no inclination to pursue them as Conan ran toward the door, waving his gore-smeared sword.

Outside, the wind struck the four with such force that for a moment they could make no headway. Conan alone could fight the blasts of the storm, but even his great strength would not be enough to tow an old man and two sisters against the wind.

Vitarius waved madly, his voice lost in the tempest. Conan understood what he wanted: They must move along the building, using it for support.

The four people seemed to be flies sticking to the wall, but they managed to creep along until they reached the corner of the building. There Conan led the way around the edge, his arm linked to Kinna’s. She in turn held her sister, who clasped Vitarius’s bony wrist. The wind shoved the human chain down the street like so many leaves. They ran so fast, Conan almost lost his footing. He remembered, however, what Vitarius had said earlier: They must run aslant to the oncoming twister and get behind it. After moving a short way down the street, Conan ducked into the lee of a temple, dragging the trio with him. He paused long enough to allow them to catch their breath.

A portion of some building blew by in the street, torn from a structure. Conan pointed and yelled, “That way!”

They ran, gathering their energies when they had to leave the protection of houses or fences, leaning into the wind.

Behind them, the devil-wind changed direction, so that only its edge sliced into the Milk of Wolves Inn. Conan turned to stare at the rampaging black monster, still reflecting its own ghostly light. He saw the bodies of the cutthroats fly into the air, spinning into the maw of the tornado. There was one he had slain; there went the fat man. He did not see the man with the patch. He did see that the storm tried to pursue them and so redoubled his efforts. Through it, Conan felt no real fear; rather it was the challenge of beating the storm that drove him. By Crom, no storm was as agile as a Cimmerian!

The wind tried to turn, but the clouds from which it dragged its sucking tip could not adjust their path so easily. The storm angled toward them, but slowly. When Conan judged they were far enough, he turned again, heading more into the wind. Debris smacked into him, but he held fast to the woman behind him. digging his boots deeply into the churned mud of the street. At one point Vitarius slipped; such was the wind that for an instant he floated flaglike from the taut arm of Eldia. Fortunately for him, the girl’s grip was strong, else he would have been blown away.