As more of his senses returned, with them came an awareness of aches and pains, and general stiffness. The cut on his neck burned still, but not with poison. The unguent’s scent reminded him vaguely of the poultice Connacht had used to preserve his hands so many years before. Other nicks and cuts he found through the tightness of stitches. The wounds hadn’t been deep that he remembered, and had they been, cautery would have been used to close them instead of needlework.
A gentle hand laid a cool compress on his forehead. Another cloth dabbed at the wound on his neck. Soft words in distant whispers reached his ears, and his mind reconstructed his world. On a ship, a woman attending him, her hand so gentle, her voice warm for him.
My beloved ...
When he opened his eyes, even the feeble candlelight burned them. He began to tear up, but not quickly enough. He could not recognize the woman perched on the edge of the bunk, but he knew who she was
not
.
She is gone, Conan, long gone.
A tremor shook him, then all strength fled his limbs.
Tamara pressed a hand to his chest. “Don’t speak, Conan. Don’t try to move. The poison gave you a fever. It’s only just broken.”
He blinked away tears. “How long?”
The monk smiled. “You don’t listen very well.”
“How long?” He tried to make his words forceful, but he could barely muster a whisper.
“Two days. There has been no sign of them.” Tamara nodded sincerely. “Artus has set course for the east, to Hyrkania.”
Conan shook his head and tried to sit up. “No.”
She restrained him with a light hand. “Once I am safe, there is nothing more to fear.”
Conan sighed. He wanted to explain to her that as long as Khalar Zym lived and had the mask, she would never be safe. She would argue that her master had directed her to Hyrkania, and he would explain that her journey and his mission were not intertwined. He had to go after Khalar Zym and destroy the mask.
But weakness betrayed him. He surrendered to her ministrations and exhaustion.
First defeat the poison, then the one who uses it.
IT TOOK ONE
more day for Conan to crawl from the bunk, and that over Tamara’s protestations that he would faint and his stitches would burst. He just growled at her, and the woman proved she had some sense by not trying to stop him. She showed she had more by not laughing when he bumped his head on the companionway ceiling as he stumbled his way to the main deck.
Thank Crom it’s night.
He straightened up and drew in a deep breath, resisting the temptation to shade his eyes from the harsh moonlight. It splashed silver over the waves and he smiled, remembering many an evening watching it, content with his life as a corsair.
Artus looked down from the wheel deck. “So the dead have risen.”
“How long are we out of Shaipur?”
“Three days, but becalmed for the last half.” Artus shrugged. “Trade winds will be shifting soon. I’d rather not chance the Styx. So what will be your pleasure? Vendhya or Khitai?”
Conan slowly trudged up the steps and stood beside his friend. “Someday both, but not for me, now.”
“But the girl said . . .”
The Cimmerian patted Artus on the shoulder. “You can take her to Hyrkania, and may all the gods speed that journey. But me, you’ll be putting me ashore as soon as we find a place where I can buy a horse. Khalar Zym has to be bound for Khor Kalba. I’ll happily kill him there.”
“That will be quite the undertaking for one man, Conan, even such as you. Let us come with you.”
The Cimmerian shook his head. “It is not your fight, Artus.”
“Either you are lying to me now, my brother, or you are lying to yourself.” Artus waved a hand toward the shore, which was but a distant black band beneath the starry sky. “You tell me that Khalar Zym must die and the mask must be shattered so he cannot raise Acheron. You claim preventing this is a responsibility you inherited through your father. But I ask you, were Khalar Zym to succeed, what would his empire mean to me, mean to this motley pack of sea wolves?
“One empire from mountains to sea, from ice to the Black Kingdoms? Would there be room for corsairs and adventurers? No, save perhaps in arenas where men die for the amusement of nobles. No freedom. No wealth to be won, no wenches to be bedded. My parents were slaves, but not I, and I shall die fighting Khalar Zym’s empire.”
The barbarian’s head ached. Conan could not tell if Artus was right, or if he’d been lying to himself and indulging in dreams of revenge. Ultimately it did not matter, because either answer still pointed to the same necessities.
“You are wise, Artus, perhaps wiser than I.” Conan exhaled heavily. “You can help me, but it will not be by traveling with me.”
Artus folded his hands over his chest. “Go on.”
“If I fail, the girl must be hidden in Hyrkania
and
the world must know the danger it faces. Upon you I rely for both of those things.”
The Zingaran’s expression tightened. “You cannot assault Khor Kalba alone.”
“I don’t intend to go alone. And I don’t intend to make an assault.” Conan smiled. “Remember, Artus, before either of us were pirates, we were both thieves. A thief will do what pirates can’t . . . and pirates will be free to save the world.”
CHAPTER 25
CONAN STOOD ON
the main deck a day later, the sword in his hand whistling through the air. He’d lost his sword at the Shaipur outpost. The
Hornet
’s armory boasted a fine selection of weapons plundered from the world over. As sailors were wont to do, they wagered on which they thought the Cimmerian might choose.
He tried a half dozen, almost instantly rejecting anything saberlike that resembled Khalar Zym’s sword. While the sabers were fine weapons, and curved cutlasses worked well aboard ship, both served best when the fighting allowed for grand slashes. He wanted more reach than afforded by an Aquilonian short sword. The closest blade they had to the one he lost needed a new grip. Finally he settled on a long sword, which gained in length what it surrendered in width.
Had this been my blade at Shaipur, I might have spitted him.
Conan studied the blade once more, then turned to face Artus. “Raise an edge on it, open the toe of my scabbard so it fits, and I am set.”
Artus smiled and accepted a small pouch of gold coins from the first mate. “I thought that might be it.”
“And ’twas your teeth that gnawed the grip on the broadsword.”
The Zingaran shrugged. “Tang was weak and cross hilt too small.”
“True.” Conan smiled. “Artus, I had him. So very close.”
“The gods were not amused enough.” The corsair’s eyes narrowed. “Are you certain you’re well enough to go after him?”
Conan spread his arms wide, stretching massive chest muscles. “I will be fine by the time the gods are amused enough to blow us to the coast. I swear, Artus, you are as bad as Tamara.”
“I care for you as a brother, Conan. She cares as well.” Artus smiled easily. “You saved her life.”
“And she mine.” Conan shook his head. “You must promise me she will be safe, Artus.”
“I will not disappoint you. Still . . .”
“Yes?”
“There is no reason you cannot get her to Hyrkania and await Khalar Zym there.” Artus held a hand up. “No, Conan, do not try to convince me this is the only way. He
needs
her. He will pursue her.”
The Cimmerian shook his head. “I am not one to lie in wait, Artus, you know that.”
“True, but if a brother may point out the obvious to a brother, you seem to run faster
from
her than
toward
him.”
Conan growled at Artus, but before he could say anything, Tamara appeared from belowdecks, adorned in bright red and blue silks. She wore a broad smile.
The Cimmerian snapped at her. “You look like a harlot.”
Her eyes flashed. “Yes, and apparently I’m the only woman you have met who isn’t one!”
Conan stared at her for a heartbeat, then turned away, his new sword singing through the air. One sailor laughed and the Cimmerian spun, looking at him over a yard of steel. “Artus, give her leather and armor. She handles herself better in a fight than you scum. Keep civil tongues in your heads and you may live long enough to see the proof.”
TAMARA LOOKED AFTER
the withdrawing barbarian, then to Artus. “I don’t understand.”
Artus perched himself on the rail as Conan climbed up to the wheel deck and disappeared from sight. “Most people look at him, a northern barbarian, and they think he’s simple. And ’tis true that strong currents run through him. When action’s demanded, he’s the man who acts instead of thinking . . . but he’s cunning, too. I’ve seen that over my time with him, and it’s that time, going on a decade here and there, that maybe lets me see.”
She pressed a hand to her throat. “Then perhaps you can enlighten me. The Conan I’ve seen has the constitution of a bull and the disposition of a mule. He’s fearsome in combat and yet capable of . . . Khalar Zym’s aide, the one we captured, Conan snapped his neck as if it was nothing.”
“From the barbarian point of view, the man was already dead. After all, had he been any sort of warrior, he never would have surrendered. He would have died on the battlefield.” Artus shrugged. “And his willingness to bargain, this unmanned him further. The man, I’m sure, thought he could pull the wool over Conan’s eyes. Not the first to make that mistake, and certainly not the last—though all of them tend to share the same fate.”
She glanced up toward the wheel deck but could not see Conan. “So, he is a man who kills, and that is all?”
“You know that is not true, woman. Conan is a man of great passions. Wine and women, plunder and adventure; these are passions of his. But he is fiercely loyal. You’ve saved his life. He shall never forget that, and never let harm come to you. Know that as well as you know the sun rises in the east.”
Tamara nodded. Conan was completely unlike the people she had known growing up. In the monastery, their training allowed them to channel their emotions into constructive things. While they did develop martial skills, they studied them to defend themselves and others. Conan’s passions flowed in the entirely opposite direction.
Master Fassir was a creature or order, but Conan . . .
The instant she sought to contrast them, she immediately saw that which they shared. Master Fassir, too, had his passions. He loved the people of the monastery. In taking her in, he had proved his love for the people of the world. Master Fassir had dedicated his life to thwarting Khalar Zym in one way, and so Conan, in another, was devoting himself to the same task.
Tamara reached out and caught Artus’s forearm. “You are his friend, Artus. Tell me, his life, is it one that makes him happy?”
The Zingaran scratched at his chin. “He is one who may not have been born to ever be happy. Where others first taste mother’s milk, he had her blood. Born on a battlefield was he, and never quite so happy is he except when fighting.”
“Never?”
Artus sighed. “Conan and I are not joined at the hip, little one. There are times he is away. When he returns, perhaps he is less melancholy. It is not the way of men to ask after these things.”
“That is foolish.” She turned toward the stairs, but Artus caught a handful of silks and restrained her. “Let me go.”
“No, Tamara. You seek to mend that which cannot be mended. Not now.” The corsair laughed easily. “Get yourself below. Get yourself into proper dress, battle dress. If that won’t bring a smile to his face, I sincerely doubt there is anything else that will.”
IN THE DEEPEST
depths of Khor Kalba, restless waves splashed up through a massive iron grate filling a cylindrical cavern’s floor. Shadows obscured the upper reaches. Chains attached to cages filled with skeletons or skeletally slender prisoners hung down from the darkness. The other ends attached to massive cleats, allowing attendants to raise and lower cages as required.
The iron had been worked in a pattern that recalled the arms of a squid. Marique had liked it from the first because of its tantalizing symmetry. Her father had seen it as an omen confirming the rightness of his choice of Khor Kalba. He seemed to have forgotten that it was Marique who had discovered that the current construction had been built over Acheronian ruins. And, indeed, nearby excavations had unearthed much which increased her knowledge of necromantic lore.
Marique picked her way along a haphazard path like a child wandering through a garden. She chose carefully the runes upon which she stepped, and how hard she stepped on them. The sounds her boots made, the cadence of her steps, and the very notes produced by each individual rune wove a powerful magick.
Finally she reached the center point. From the small sack on her belt she withdrew the limp body of a cat—one of many feral creatures infesting Khor Kalba. She’d lured it with cheese, then snapped its neck. She disemboweled it, read the liver, then packed it up with a small bit of the cloth bearing the monk’s blood and another missive that Marique had written herself. She looked down through the hole centermost in the grate, then dropped the cat and watched as it disappeared into the depths.
A minute, perhaps two, passed, then the water became greatly agitated. It splashed up through the grate, though it never touched Marique. Then it settled, several feet lower than it had been, and she walked from the center uncaring what tune her steps played.
Her father awaited her at the edge. “Well?”
“It is done. Your troops shall reach their ship unseen, and the girl will soon be yours.”
CONAN STOOD AT
the aft rail, staring at the sea. He felt the breeze and heard the gulls. The tang, their cries, took him back to the
Tigress
and the time he had spent with Bêlit. He had tried very hard to avoid those memories, but he could not. Though Tamara and Bêlit could not have been more different, when he had wakened from his fever to discover Tamara tending him, he had at first thought she was Bêlit.