Conan The Indomitable (11 page)

The silken vessel was most interesting, Deek and Wikkell agreed. It was
light enough for Wikkell to lift with one hand, and yet banging it accidentally
against a wall produced no apparent damage. The craft would easily hold them
and perhaps two more passengers as large as
they,
and
the plants had thoughtfully provided a floor inside for added support and
comfort.

Once the cyclops and worm reached the sea, the wondrous boat rode high in
the water with nary a leak. Utilizing a large sculling oar produced by the
plants—at no extra charge—Wikkell saw Deek safely aboard, locked the oar into
place, then hopped into the vessel and rapidly propelled the boat away from the
shore.

While Deek had no hands, he was able to use the tip of his tail to assist
Wikkell with the sculling. The gleaming, silvery craft sped over the smooth
water at a pace both occupants found quite amazing.

“I doubt that I could run this quickly,” Wikkell observed.

Deek made no audible reply, the bottom of the boat being too smooth for his
vocal apparatus to engage, but he was of a like mind. The plants built well, no
arguing that.
Something to keep in mind for the future.
One could construct a number of things from this remarkable webbing.

“Surely the prey we pursue cannot travel half so fast,” Wikkell
said. “We should catch them in short order.”

If we do not take a wrong turning, Deek thought.

“That is, if we do not take a wrong turning,” Wikkell said.
“But we have help from the plants, after all.”

Deek could not speak but he lifted his head and waved it up and down in a
gesture that he hoped would pass for a nod.

Wikkell caught the motion and smiled, showing his square and sturdy teeth.
“Yes, indeed. I begin to have hopes that this venture might well turn out
in our favor after all, Deek old son.”

Deek nodded again. The boat skimmed along the water, carrying them after
their quarry. Perhaps, Deek thought, he might yet escape the lime pits and come
out of this with some kind of victory. A shame he was going to have to flatten
Wikkell, though. He was beginning to grow fond of the cyclops. Perhaps there
was another way to get the people without killing his new friend. He could
explore that idea, certainly; it was the least he could do.

A single cruising bat spied the Harskeel’s man sitting alone on the rock
next to the sea, and apparently decided that such a meal was simply too good to
bypass. The bat dived, already extruding his pointed feeding tube to skewer the
unsuspecting delicacy.

Unfortunately for the bat, the man was not
alone,
and merely acting as bait for just such an attack. The flying rodent had no
sooner lit upon the man than he was set upon and captured by three other men
who had lain hidden nearby, under the direction of the Harskeel. The bat
thrashed and fluttered, but the touch of cold and sharp iron at his throat
brought the struggle to a fast end.

“I would speak with you,” the Harskeel said.

The bat made no reply.

“Ah, you do not understand civilized speech.
A pity.
Kill it,” the Harskeel ordered.

“Wait!” the bat called out. His voice was high and the accent made
the word almost unintelligible, but the Harskeel grinned at the sound of it.

“Hold,” it commanded.

The Harskeel’s men stayed their pikes.

“Now,” the Harskeel said, “how are you called?”

The bat gnashed sharp teeth. When he spoke, his voice was haughty. “I
am Crimson So Strong, High Flier and Drinker of Life.”

“Crimson?”

“Named for the beautiful splash of that same color
upon the fur of my back.”

“Fine
. ‘
Red’ will do for a name. Now, Red, I
have a proposition for you.”

“A proposition?
We do not deal with those who
hold us captive.”

“Let him go.”

The Harskeel’s men released the bat, who gathered himself for a fast escape.

“Before you leave, Red, you should at least hear my proposition. Not that
I think you shall get very far, you understand. Zate over there can skewer you
before you rise more than this high.” The Harskeel held up its thumb and
forefinger, separated by the thickness of a boot heel.

Red turned slightly to look at the man called Zate. That worthy grinned
brightly and hefted his pike meaningfully.

“I was merely stretching my cramped wings,” Red observed.
“Certainly I should be most interested to hear your proposition.”

“Your kind drinks blood for sustenance, do they not?”

“I feel that you already know that,” Red answered.

“As it happens, I have dabbled in magic now and again,” the
Harskeel said.

Behind the Harskeel, one of its men snickered. The Harskeel did not pause,
nor did it turn. As soon as all of this was done, that man was as good as
dead,
one could bet one’s fortune on that.

The Harskeel continued smoothly. “And, as it also happens, I am in
possession of a spell that will produce fresh blood in a large quantity.”

“You jest,” Red said. “You are pulling my wing.”

“Perhaps a sample for your edification?”

With that, the Harskeel produced a small brass bowl from its purse and held
it out for the bat to inspect. Red took the bowl and looked at it carefully.
“This is empty,” the bat said. He rapped a knuckle against the metal,
producing a hollow clink. “I see no blood.”

The Harskeel retrieved the bowl. “I wished you to be assured there was
no trickery involved.” The Harskeel pushed its shirt-sleeves back, showing
its arms to be bare, and held the small brass bowl cupped in its hands. It
began to speak quietly in a language that it knew none around it could
understand.

The Harskeel finished its incantation.

The bowl began to fill. Dark liquid welled quickly, reaching the brim of the
bowl and forming a meniscus. The Harskeel handed the bowl to Red, who sniffed
it.

“Why, it smells just like—”

“—blood,” the Harskeel finished. “Go ahead, taste it.”

Red looked at the blood and his feeding tube started to flick out, then
stopped, “How do I know it is not poisoned?”

The Harskeel smiled. “You do not. However, why should I bother? If I
had wanted you dead, I could have easily had you impaled upon three pikes
earlier.”

Red considered this. “That makes good sense.” He extruded his
feeding tube and inserted it into the bowl of liquid. Faster than it had come,
the blood vanished.

“Why, this is excellent! The best I have ever tasted!”

“So glad you liked it.”

“This spell, what would it take to obtain it? And how much of this
nectar can it produce?”

“I thought you might get to that. The spell has limits, of course. You
might get as much as, oh, six or seven barrels.”

“Seven
barrels
?
How… how wonderful!
We could feast a hundred of us on that.”

“Of course the spell will recharge itself after a few days, and be able
to make that much more each time.”

“I must have it! Ask anything!”

The Harskeel grinned. Truly these bats were not adept at trading. In fact,
the spell would produce
a half
dozen barrels of blood,
but only once. Were this fluid not consumed rapidly, it would clot within a
matter of hours, making it totally useless. Of course by the time the bats
found that out, the Harskeel planned to be long gone.

“I am following someone who escaped via this body of water,” the
Harskeel said. “I require a boat, and someone who can tow it as
well.”

“That’s all?”

“I am a generous sort.”

Red glanced at the empty bowl. “Well, I must confess that there is
little free wood in the caves. Boats are normally made from wood.”

“I care not if the craft is made from dung, so long as it floats.”

“Hmm.
I am certain that we can come up with
what you require. I shall convey this offer to my brothers and we will most
assuredly manage something. You, ah, will wait right here until I return?”

“Indeed I shall.”

“I shall hurry.” Red gathered himself to leap into flight,
then
paused. “You might want to tell Zate to stay his
pike.”

The Harskeel laughed.
“No problem, Red, my
friend.”

With that, the bat zipped into the air and darted away.

The Harskeel watched the bat flit off through the nearest exit. It was very
pleased with itself. A small spell that would buy him the barbarian’s capture
was cheap enough. If all of the bats were as gullible as Red, the transaction
would be as smooth as a looking glass. They could be easily bluffed and tricked;
Zate’s skill with a pike, for instance, was such that he would be most lucky to
hit a man-sized target at two paces, much less a flying bat at five times that
distance. Pikes were not meant to be thrown; it would take a stronger man than
Zate to manage such a task.

“This river seems to go on forever,” Elashi said.

“Aye,” Conan responded. “And it seems also to be curving to
our right.”

“Best hope we come to a stopping point soon,” Tull said.
“Look.”

Conan and Elashi followed the direction of Tull’s pointing finger. Conan saw
what the man meant immediately, although Elashi did not. “What?” she
asked. “I see nothing amiss.”

“The fish rides lower in the water,” Conan said. “Observe
the’steps’ I cut out.”

Indeed, it was obvious that their boat was sinking, albeit slowly; several
of the steps nearest the edges of the great fish were under the water.

“Why is it doing that?” Elashi asked.

Conan shrugged. He knew little of such things.

Tull said, “Perhaps other fishy predators were at the bottom during the
night. Or perhaps our mount is becoming waterlogged.”

“Can we do anything about it?”

“Find a good spot to start walking, I should think,” Tull said.
“Although we can probably get another day or two out of it before it goes
under for good.”

An hour later Conan shook his head.
“I like
this not,” he said.

“What now?” Elashi asked.

“We have turned almost back in the same direction whence we came.”

“I see no signs of that. How can you know this?”

Conan shrugged again. He had an innate sense of direction, had had it as
long as he could remember. It was possible for him to get lost, of course, but
some inner guide usually oriented him quickly, no matter what the surroundings.

“Well, it does not really matter, does it? Anyone following us will
have to take the same waterway. So it loops and twists a bit, so much the
better—we shall be harder to find and see for that.”

Conan did not speak to this. Perhaps Elashi was right. He had no logical
reason to feel trepidatious; still, some atavistic sense stirred within him,
and he prepared himself for the worst.

Rey was surprised as he entered the breeding cave of the Bloodbats: the
place was virtually empty. Well, of living things, in any event. The floor
showed signs of a fairly active
stour
: the dessicated
bodies of several Blind Whites and men lay strewn carelessly about, as well as
a number of slain bats.
Hmm.
It seemed that his prey
had passed this way. But… where were the bats
who
normally clung to the walls and ceilings? There were only a few of them dead
upon the floor, and the wizard could not imagine the remainder abandoning their
cave over such trifles. A little blood never bothered the bats.

Rey laughed, amused by his own joke. Blood did not bother the bats. That was
a good jest! He would have spoken it aloud, but he realized that his escort of
cyclopes
would likely see little humor in it. Stupid
creatures, one and all, and fit only for thralls.

Yes, well, that was all fine and good, but he had business to which he must
attend. The bats had obviously gotten off somewhere to do something, and he
would likely discover that purpose eventually. Besides, that was not the
primary reason for his trip by any means. No, and the presence in the cave of
dead men other than those he sought did not seem a benevolent augury. One had
to wonder who they were and how they had gotten here, and in what way were they
connected to the ones Rey sought. That a connection existed he doubted not at
all. He had not lived as long as he had by trusting coincidence any farther than
he could pitch a cyclops one handedly.

Rey waved, and the pair of cyclopian chair-carriers bent and lifted his
sedan from the ground. Well, he would get to the root of it soon enough.

In that grating-over-rock voice her thralls had, the advance worm returned
to tell Chuntha of the carnage in the bats’ breeding cave. That news did not
bother the witch a whit, but the worm also bespoke a more unpleasant fact: the
wizard had moved through the cave, along with a number of one-eyes carrying
large amounts of cargo.

Chuntha shifted uneasily on the worm she rode. This boded ill. Something was
definitely out of order in the caves if that sluglike wizard would bother to
stir his indolent self and go venturing about. That he wanted to steal her
barbarian she knew; the lengths to which he would go to thwart her surprised
her somewhat.

The witch’s resolve hardened. So be it. If the wizard wanted a fight, fine.
She would give it to him. She was no fragile wisp to be blown away by his hot
air. She would see about this!

Her mount responded to the pressure of Chuntha’s knees and began his
segmented glide once again. The other worms initiated their own crawls, and the
party moved on.

Perhaps two-score bats arrived at the Harskeel’s location, dragging by lines
behind them what appeared to be several large wooden doors.