Conan The Freelance (20 page)

Alas, Conan could not see how they would reach the castle before dark, traveling in such a roundabout manner. To circumvent some of the obstacles took them far to the sides at times, and sometimes the places upon which they could safely walk required a wide detour to find.

As the light of noon shone upon them, they stopped to eat the last of the food Stead and the late Jube had stolen in the village.

“Good that you found this,” Conan said, chewing on a greasy sausage.

Stead said, “Yes. Jube did not die with an empty stomach.”

He said this as if it were important, and both Tair and Cheen nodded in agreement.

Conan swallowed a bit of the sausage and bit off another chunk. He could not say that dying with a full stomach was better than leaving this world with an empty one. The choice for him was between living and dying. Alive, a man could always find something to fill his belly. Dead? Well, that was another matter, and though it came to all eventually, Conan was in no hurry to try that option as yet.

To amuse himself, Hok dug at the weed with the point of the short knife Tair had given him, and he looked happy in that small chore. Conan smiled at the boy. It took little to keep a child amused.

“What do you think we shall find when we arrive at the castle?” Cheen asked.

Conan shrugged. “Who can say? Your magical Seed, if our luck is good. Perhaps some valuables the wizard is not using. Or maybe a hundred armed selkies instead.” He did not worry about such things. He would face it when it arose, and to worry overmuch about it now was merely wasted effort.

Before Tair could speak to that, there came a haunting sound unlike any Conan had ever heard. His ears were keener than those of his companions, who did not seem to hear it at first. A woman singing some sad and compelling melody, it sounded like.

Tair noticed it; Conan saw him turn his head to better hear the tune. Hok lifted his head from his digging at the weed, Stead caught the sound and finally, Cheen looked around, apparently puzzled.

“What is that?” Tair said. “I have never heard anything so… beautiful!”

Aye, Conan agreed. The, singing conjured up visions of women lamenting the loss of their men, calling for someone to come and help them forget their sadness. Anyone would do, but they would prefer Conan, as if they could see him there, listening.

Already, Tair was on his feet, as was Hok. Behind them Stead had taken several strides toward the call. Cheen continued to look puzzled.

“What are you doing?” Cheen asked.

Conan ignored her and began to follow Stead. The boy and his older brother had already started in that direction.

“Conan? Tair? Wait!”

Something about the call was familiar to Conan, but he could not say what it was immediately. It was as if he had heard it before somewhere ….

It felt like a dream to him, a vision fueled by the sweetness of those voices. Familiar, yes, but where and when had he heard it before? Surely he could not forget such women?

Behind him, Cheen yelled. “Conan! Stop! Something is wrong! Do not go to them!”

She was like a buzzing mosquito, meaningless, and Conan continued to walk. Fortunately, there seemed to be little or none of the thin weed between him and the women, and-yes, he could see them in the distance, perched on the edge of a small lake within the confines of the Sargasso. It was hard to tell at first, but as Conan and the others drew closer, he could see that there were three of them, and they were all naked as well. Their beauty matched their songs. They were lush of breast, had long, black hair that fell to their hips, and-what was this? Their legs were joined into a single, greenish body that ended in a tail!

Well, no matter. They were not women, but certainly they were close enough. And they did need him so. Their song told him.

Conan grinned. Yes.

He started to move faster.

Something snared Conan’s legs, locking his ankles together. He was unprepared for it, and he toppled forward. He threw his arms out to stop his fall and the weed was forgiving, but his legs were still snarled in something. He looked back.

Cheen had grabbed him around the ankles, and she held tightly to them now.

“Let go,” he said.

“Conan, no! Something is amiss here!”

“Aye, release my legs; that is what is wrong!” No.

No? Well, he would see about that. There was no way she could hold him, he was much too strong. He pulled one leg free, drew his foot back, and was about to thrust his heel into her face—

Then he remembered where he had heard the call before.

In the underground caves where he had been trapped with Elashi the desert woman and the old warrior Tull, there had been some magical, evil plants that had used a voice inside their minds to lure Conan and his friend close. They had very nearly died as a result.

The plants had sounded much like these half women just ahead sounded.

By Crom, it was a trap!

Conan stayed his foot. “I am free of the spell,” he said to Cheen. “Release me so that we might save the others!”

“Are you sure?”

“Hurry, woman!”

Cheen let go of Conan’s leg, and he bounded up. The song still droned at him, seductive and insistent, but he knew it for what it was now, and the naked women with their arms outstretched toward him held no allure.

The other two men and the boy were still enthralled, however.

To Cheen, Conan said, “Take the boy. I will stop Tair and Stead!”

The Cimmerian began to run.

Thayla had been unable to speak to Blad alone. Her fool of a husband had not moved more than a few spans away from her since the dawn. Did he suspect something? No, she could not see how that was possible, but certainly he had not given her an opportunity to speak to Blad without being able to overhear them, not since he answered nature’s call that morning. She had gone off to do the same several times since, trying to offer a suggestion to him to do the same again, but he had not done so. And she could hardly ask Blad to come with her when she squatted behind a clump of weed; fool that he was, even Rayk would look askance at that.

Thayla was beginning to feel desperate. They had to be getting closer to their destination, though they had not sighted it for some time. The way was roundabout, certainly, due to dangers real or imagined, but eventually the three of them would reach the castle, were they not killed by something along the way. To continue onward was to court certain death, Thayla felt, and if she could not get Blad’s attention soon, she had in mind using her own knife to slit Rayk’s throat.

Better that Blad should do the deed, in case something went wrong, but someone had to do something soon. This was lunacy. Thayla was not ready to die, not for a long, long time.

As the late-afternoon shadows began to paint the hollows and hillocks of the Sargasso, Kleg drew ever nearer the abode of his master. Not long now. He could make out the details of buildings, could see the low and rambling structures that made up the entire compound. He would be there well before darkfall, the hero returned, the instrument of his master’s salvation. Surely He Who Creates would be so filled with gratitude that Kleg’s reward would be boundless.

Behind the running selkie, the drone of the skreeches lay faintly on the air. Apparently they had yet to ensnare their prey, for when that happened, the songs died more quickly than the victims.

And as for the beast that trailed him, Kleg had neither seen nor heard from it for a long time, hours at least. Whatever it was, whatever it-wanted, it would not have from Kleg, for He Who Creates could destroy even such a monster as that one with a few well-chosen words, of that Kleg was certain.

The Prime selkie continued his thoughts of glory and reward as he ran. Soon. He would be there soon.

“Hold!” Conan said as he ran past Tair and turned to face the man.

The tree dweller’s face had the look of one who had consumed too much wine. He seemed to be in a trance, staring past Conan as if the Cimmerian were not there. He did not slow his steady gait toward the singers.

Peripherally, Conan caught sight of Cheen as she grabbed Hok. The boy struggled with his sister, fighting to free himself, but she was bigger and much stronger. Those muscles Conan had admired came into play, and the boy was held fast, despite his efforts to break free.

“Tair, you must stop. This is some kind of trap!”

Still Tair ignored Conan’s warning.

The big Cimmerian considered the problem. How to stop the man without injuring him greatly? True, he could catch and hold Tair, but doing so would engage him, leaving Stead to continue toward the singers.

Conan decided what he must do. He clenched his right hand into a fist, and using this knotted hammer of flesh and bone, he punched Tair. He struck the tree dweller high on the torso, just under the breastbone.

Tair’s wind left him with a strangled rush, and he dropped, doubled over to his knees, temporarily unable to breathe. As he clutched at his belly with both hands, Conan turned back toward the fishwomen and Stead.

Too late.

Stead was within a span of the nearest woman, and what happened then would stay with Conan forever. The woman smiled, and her lips kept spreading wider and wider, revealing a mouth that was impossibly large and teeth that belonged on a great cat or perhaps a dire wolf. That maw gaped, and the thing that looked half woman and half fish lunged at Stead, clasping him to her breasts and sinking those horrible teeth into his neck.

Stead struggled, the spell broken, but it was beyond him to break free. He screamed. Blood ran from-the terrible wound in his neck, spurting and spraying over the monster clamped to him.

Crom! Conan jerked his sword from its sheath and leaped toward the thing killing Stead. So lost was it in its meal that it did not seem to notice Conan.

Blued iron flashed in the light of the setting sun, and the blade whistled as Conan whipped it down as might a man splitting wood with an ax. He had to slash to one side, to avoid striking Stead.

Sharpened iron met the flesh and bone of the thing’s right shoulder and cleaved the arm free.

It screamed then, an inhuman screech that hurt Conan’s ears. Dropping Stead, the thing moved for Conan like a striking serpent, wiggling on the ground, its remaining arm extended, hand hooked into a sharp-nailed claw.

Conan stood his ground, snapped the sword up over his head, and brought it down with all the strength of his massive shoulders and arms behind the cut.

The blade split the she-creature’s head in twain.

The dying thing twisted away in a final spasm and lay quivering on the weed.

The second of the singers slithered over the weed toward Conan. He leaped forward to meet her, and she reared up, balanced impossibly on that tail, arms spread wide to grab him. Conan shoved the point of his blade at her heart and ran her through.

She grabbed the sword in her hands and more blood flowed as her fingers were sliced open on the sharp edge, but such was her strength that she wrested the weapon from Conan’s grasp as she fell dying to join her sister on the Sargasso.

Conan twisted to face the third monster as it came for him. He prepared to grapple with the thing as it rose up from the snakelike sliding.

But just as the she-thing reached its full height, it sprouted a spear where its left eye had been.

The creature screeched and fell over backward, both hands wrapped around the haft of the spear that had pierced its brain, killing it.

Conan turned and saw Cheen standing there. Hok lay at her feet, looking dazed. He nodded at the woman. Once again that well-muscled arm had thrown true. She had saved him once more.

Stead, however, was beyond help. The side of his neck was a raw wound that had drained his life’s blood. Even had Conan been able to reach him sooner, it was unlikely such a gaping hole could have been successfully stanched.

Conan rose from his examination of the dead man and retrieved his sword. Cheen, Tair, and Hok approached.

“Is he … ?” Tair began.

“Aye,” Conan said.

“What were those things?” Hok asked.

Conan shook his head. “I know not. I do know that this Sargasso is no place for us. The sooner we are away from here, the better.”

“We had better hurry,” Cheen said. “We do not wish to be out here after darkness.”

Aye, there was a wise comment, Conan felt.

He said, “To the castle, then. We have scores to settle with whoever set these things against us.

“Aye,” Tair said. “That we do.”

As the sun gave up his daily reign over the earth and night began to creep out around the edges of the world, the Palace of the Sargasso loomed into Kleg’s sight. Close as he was, he could see the pair of selkies standing by the southwestern-most entrance, their tall lances next to them.

At last! He was all the way home!

When the guards saw him, they snapped to alertness, their lances pointed toward him.

Kleg had a moment of worry. Was something wrong?

Then he saw the two recognize him. They relaxed their fighting stances and ordered their weapons.

Kleg released his own tight carriage and slowed to a more comfortable walk.

“Ho, my lord Prime,” one of the guards said.

Kleg nodded imperiously. “How stands the watch?”

The other guard, one of Kleg’s nest mates and therefore allowed a certain leeway in his speech with the Prime, said, “Dull, brother.”

Kleg grinned. While all selkies were brothers, some were more so. The southwest entrance had always been considered an important post because it was nearest the kitchens. A quick guard could dart in and secure a succulent morsel-or one of the kitchen maids-and be back on his post before anyone was the wiser. Kleg knew, for he had once stood this same watch himself.

“See that it stays that way,” Kleg said.

He strode past the pair to the first set of tall doors. He worked the latch, pushed the heavy wooden door noiselessly open on well-greased hinges, and stepped inside.

A torch lit the entranceway, showing the next set of doors, only two strides away. Beyond that portal was yet another, smaller door. Each of the forty-six entrances to the palace was constructed in a similar fashion. Even on the windiest of days, a careful passage through the triple-protected entrances would stop even the faintest breeze from coming into the castle. In the form that he wore, He Who Creates could not abide wind, and woe to anyone who forgot that.