Conan The Freelance (19 page)

The Prime selkie trotted away from the hole he had torn in the weed, hurrying in the direction of his master’s abode. Perhaps the eels would kill the thing chasing him. Perhaps not, but in either case, he was not waiting to see.

Conan led the five Tree Folk across the matted Sargasso, moving cautiously. There were many places where the uneven surface dipped or rose enough to block the Cimmerian’s view for any distance, and he avoided these spots as much as possible. Additionally, he had several times put one foot down on patches of weed that started to give under his weight. Only his quick reflexes saved him from falling through the weed into whatever might be waiting in the water beneath.

They were skirting a wide patch of this thin weed when Cheen stopped and closed her eyes.

“The Seed,” she said softly. Then, louder, “It is no longer under the water. It is ahead of us, there!”

She pointed straight ahead.

Before Conan could stop him, Jube lunged forward. “Where? I will retrieve it!”

The man only managed three steps before he sank from sight through the weed. “Aahh!” Water sloshed up through the hole he had made.

Conan moved to the edge of the broken weed and dropped onto his belly to spread his weight. He reached down into the gap. “My arm, take my arm!”

Jube came up sputtering, thrashing at the water, and shot a panicked hand upward. By some good fortune, he managed to clasp his hand around Conan’s wrist.

Conan had him now. He began to edge backward from the hole, using his feet and free arm. This was a danger averted

Suddenly Conan felt sensation grip him, a feeling unlike any he had ever known. It was somewhat like the way his hair sometimes stood on end on a cold and dry day, but that was as close as he could come. His body tingled with a cold fire, his muscles felt as if they belonged to another man, and he convulsed in a spasm that jerked his entire frame, flinging him backward and away from the hole.

Jube’s grip was broken, and well that it was so, for the man’s fingers had become with the tingling as powerful as a wooden clamp. The sensation stopped when contact ended.

Jube screamed, and his body contorted, his arms shaking. For only an instant his shriek lasted, then he slid back into the hole, and the black water covered him.

Conan was paralyzed; he could not seem to gather his strength to rise. A strange, buzzing sound came from the hole in the weed. After a moment, it stopped.

Cheen and Tair rushed to help Conan to his feet. Brushing them aside, he arose on his own, feeling shaken but otherwise undamaged.

“Crom, what was that?”

He moved back to the hole, carefully, and peered down into it. As he watched, Jube’s body floated up to the surface. Tair would have reached for it, but Conan held him back.

“Nay, hold a moment.”

“He will drown!”

“Touch him and you may die also. Here, let me have your spear.”

Tair tendered his weapon. Gingerly, Conan prodded the body with the wooden butt of the spear. The sensation he had felt was either gone or did not travel through the wood. He pushed the end of the haft under Jube’s leather belt, heaved, and managed to lift the man half out of the water. Another tug, and Jube was clear, lying on the weed.

Conan released the spear and reached out to touch Jube with one finger, very carefully. Nothing amiss now. He rolled the body over onto its back.

“He is dead,” Cheen said, saying aloud what Conan already knew.”

“Aye.”

“There is not a mark on him, no wound, nothing. How could this be?”

The man’s face was contorted into a grimace that indicated he had died in great pain.

“He looks just like old Kine did after the lightning hit him,” Tair said. “Only his face is not black.”

“Lightning does not strike underwater,” Cheen said.

“Perhaps it does in the wizard’s domain,” Tair said.

Conan, meanwhile, had edged back to the hole and now peered into the water. Something was moving under the surface. He raised the spear and suddenly jabbed downward. The point struck something, and Conan flipped it up into the air, slinging it free of the spear. For the brief time that the spear had been in contact with the thing, he felt another of those shivery cold fires dance in his hands, but considerably weaker than before.

The thing fell onto the weed, and Conan went to examine it, followed by the others.

“What is it, a snake? Was he bit?” That from the boy.

Conan squatted next to the wriggling creature, being careful to avoid touching it. It was as long as his arm, and the thickness of his wrist. “Not a snake. An eel.”

In truth, while the thing looked more like such a beast than anything else, it was not exactly like any eels Conan had seen before. Still, the name was as good as any.

“I have never heard of an eel with poison,” Cheen said.

“I have,” Conan said. “But I do not think Jube was bitten. This thing contains some power. Kin to the lightning, perhaps. I think that just touching it is worth your life.”

The eel’s wiggling slowed and grew less, until finally it stopped altogether.

“Well,” Conan said, “magic or not, it can be killed. But we had best be certain to avoid falling into the water.”

They all turned to look at the unfortunate Jube.

Blad led the way, testing the weed with his spear and hesitant steps. Rayk followed, and Thayla was behind him.

“Husband, I would not have you think me critical-“

“Hah! “

“-but,” she continued, ignoring his interruption, “what is it you think we are going to do when we arrive at yon castle?”

“I shall think of something,” Rayk replied.

“That would be a first.”

“Hold your tongue!”

“Do you perhaps think that you and Blad and I are going to storm the place and wrest from a wizard something he so obviously wants? The three of us?”

“You try my patience!”

“Nay, I merely seek answers. I concede the value of the Tree Folk’s talisman, but trying to beard the lion in his own den seems less than wise.”

“I said that I will think of something. We must first get there and see the lay of the situation. I shall speak of it no more. And neither shall you.”

He turned away from her, and Thayla stared at his back. By all the Gods, he was a bigger fool than even she had thought. He seemed intent on getting them all killed. Well, that would not do. More and more, it seemed as if Blad was a better choice. When the opportunity arose, she would speak to the young Pili. Convincing him to put a spear into Ray k’s back should be easy enough. Then the two of them could turn around and go home. With Rayk dead, things would be a lot easier to manage. He had gotten more arrogant of late, and a more tractable mate was definitely in order. A shame it could not be Blad, since he was already hers, body and soul, but she could hardly trust a male who knew too much, which Blad certainly did.

Ah, well. There was no help for it. If she wanted to survive, she would simply have to make some hard choices. One could not have everything, though one could certainly try.

From ahead, there came an eerie wailing sound. It was the cry of some creature, and there was something about it that both attracted and repelled at the same time. Thayla could not recall ever having heard the like. If she had been made to describe it, she would have said the sound seemed to be a lonely creature who was part wolf, part human woman, and part swamp loon. It was not so much a howl as a song, and it made her skin crawl.

The three Pili stopped.

“What is that?” Thayla asked.

“How should I know? You have spent as much time on this smelly plant as have L”

“Should we investigate?” Blad said.

Rayk and Thayla spoke together as one:

“No,” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

“It might be useful to us,” the king allowed.

“And it might have us as its next meal,” the queen countered.

“I feel drawn to see what makes the sound.” It was Rayk who said this, but Blad nodded his agreement.

“Aye, I also feel the attraction,” Thayla said, “and that is reason enough to avoid it.”

The two Pili males looked at her as if she had sprouted wings and might fly away at any moment.

“It sounds like some kind of lure,” she said, trying to be patient.

“How can you know this?” Rayk demanded.

“I cannot. But I thought you wanted to go to the mage’s castle and retrieve the talisman?”

“Aye, that is true.”

“Then you must decide which it will be. Would you collect the magical device or go chasing off in the weed after some unknown sound that might be deadly?”

She watched Rayk and Blad look at each other. The sound called louder to them than it did to her, that was apparent. Males were prey to drives that did not seem to afflict females, and this soulful song dragged insistently at them.

The king turned to look in the direction of the sound, and Thayla pointed at Blad, catching his attention. She shook her head from side to side, indicating that she did not want to seek the source of the mournful tune calling to them.

Blad, dull as he was, understood. When the king turned back toward Thayla and her lover, she nodded at the younger Pili male.

He found his tongue. “Ah, perhaps the queen is right, Majesty. Our goal is the talisman. We could investigate the sound on our way back.”

The king glared at Blad, then at Thayla. He nodded, somewhat reluctantly, the queen thought. “Very well. First we fetch the talisman.”

The three turned away from the sound and proceeded toward the unseen castle in the distance.

Thayla’s brief moment of triumph and satisfaction faded quickly. Going from one unknown danger to another was hardly a thing to inspire a feeling of victory.

Though better at home in the water, Kleg had spent more than a small portion of his life above it upon the surface of the Sargasso. He knew many of the dangers it held and how to avoid them, and he used that knowledge now as he ran across the living mat. He stayed well away from the large tangles of vegetation, especially those with large gaps in the weave. Those mounds sometimes contained predators, ranging from a ratlike scavenger the size of a dog to cattle-sized crustaceans that could snip a land selkie’s arm off with one snap of a pincer.

Too, there were patches of trap weed scattered here and there, though a careful eye could detect those from the slight change in coloration from the normal surface.

Whatever it was that dogged his trail was indeed slower upon the weed than under it, and Kleg steadily gained ground upon the thing. He would be tired when he arrived at the safety of the castle, but if things continued as they were, he would arrive there well ahead of his chaser. Kleg managed a smile. This entire affair had been more than he had anticipated, but at last it was nearing the end.

A distant call reached him, a seductive song that flowed over the running selkie like warm honey.

Kleg’s smile increased as he recognized the sound: skreeches.

Having spent most of his life on and under the Sargasso, the Prime selkie knew well the lure of the skreeches. He, like his fellows, was practically immune to the call. Partially this was due to long exposure, and partially it was because He Who Creates had designed the skreeches to attract men and not selkies. What might cause one of Kleg’s brothers to feel merely a wistful desire would overpower most men. A man would go to a skreech as a bee went to a flower, feeling the attraction until the skreech fastened her teeth in his throat. Those teeth were hollow fangs, the largest of which were the size of Kleg’s fingers, pointed like needles. A hungry skreech could drain the blood from her victim in a matter of moments, turning the strongest man into a pale, dead husk to be cast aside. Not a pleasant death, Kleg thought, after having seen a few. There had been a time when men sometimes chose to dare the Sargasso, and any who survived the sight of a companion taken by a skreech certainly never returned.

Once, in the village, Kleg had questioned a survivor of a skreech encounter. It had been most amusing. The man had paled and made warding off signs at the very mention of the things. Mermaids, he called them, though Kleg had not known the term. Like a beautiful woman from the hips up, the man had said, and a fish from there down. That was an apt enough description, Kleg knew. Beautiful, until she opened her mouth and sank those teeth into you.

He darted to one side, to avoid a patch of trap weed.

The skreeches were not his concern. Even if he should fall prey to one, his strength was more than a man’s and equal to the bloodsuckers; besides, it was said that a skreech did not care for the taste of selkie.

Kleg put one hand up on the pouch that still hung around his neck. The talisman was within, and he was nearly where he needed to be. His master would be pleased.

At the moment, Dimma was not in the least pleased. Some unseen crack in wall or floor or ceiling admitted a cold draft of wind, and that small stirring was enough to send the Mist Mage floating down a dank hallway quite against his will. He tried to concentrate hard enough to slow or stop his passage, but it was to no avail.

Dimma raged soundlessly. Five hundred years he had suffered! It was too much! He would, by all the Gods, spend at least the next five hundred years venting his anger upon anyone who crossed his path for the indignity of it all. It was only just that tens of thousands should suffer and die to make amends for his own suffering. Men, beasts, forests, all of them would pay.

The warmth of his anger flowed through the filmy substance of the Mist Mage, giving him the. determination to resist the small breeze that wafted him where it would. Dimma floated against the wind, feeling more powerful than he had in ages.

Oh, yes, certainly, he thought, you are strong enough to resist the breath of a mouse, eh?

Wait, he told himself. Wait until I am flesh again! Every mouse for a week’s journey in any direction will die!

Along with everything else!

As the day wore on and the sun rose higher to splash its warmth upon Conan and his four companions, the Cimmerian began to feel more at ease upon the weed. As a matter of course, he avoided any clump or hillock of the plant that might hide an attacker. After observing several more places where the Sargasso was too thin to walk upon, he noticed that such places were lighter in color than the thicker places, a faint, but definite difference. He avoided the lighter patches and the footing stayed firm.