Kinna shuddered. “You mean the hand took root in the fiend’s very face?”
“So it would seem. And since the eyes were a most unnatural place for it to be, the old hand killed him.”
“A fitting death,” Conan said. “I shall sleep better, knowing I am no longer dogged by hellspawn.”
Near the edge of the Corinthian road, Loganaro the free agent slept fitfully. Coldness wrapped him, chilling him to his depths despite his overlay of fat. He had no blanket; neither had he supplies, having left Mornstadinos in a great hurry. He had managed to gnaw the bonds from his wrists, but other than the clothing he wore, he carried nothing.
Something unseen woke the fat man. He listened carefully as he peered into the darkness, but the only sound was of some distant night bird calling to its mate. Night sounds, nothing more. This far from Mornstadinos, he should have nothing to worry about. He was safe.
He relaxed somewhat. Nothing to fear. True, he was used to better accommodations when he traveled, but this setback was merely temporary at worst. He had contacts in many of the Corinthian city-states, even in several of the small kingdoms to the south. In no time at all he would be able to connive someone into furnishing him with a mount and supplies. After that he could quickly reach one of his caches of wealth, of which there were a fair number, in various places.
Mornstadinos might be the Jewel of Corinthia, but it was not the only city. He might travel to Nemedia, or Ophir, perhaps even Koth. He was well-connected in all of those places.
Of his hasty promise to become honest and even priestlike, Loganaro thought not at all, save to smile at such foolishness. One called upon the gods only in moments of great need. Should the gods answer that need, why, that was their concern, not his. He had made bargains such as that a dozen times, and each had been broken quickly thereafter. The gods were either forgiving, or disinterested in oath-breakers, in Loganaro’s experience. A man did what he had to at the time. After that, well, things changed as often as the wind. What mattered was that he was alive and free to return to his less-than-honest-and-honorable ways. To hell with the gods.
The small grin on Loganaro’s face faded slowly as he slipped back into sleep, lulled by the distant birdcalls.
Upon the starlit road a tawny shape ran. Dawn neared, presaged by its false brother, so darkness lay thickly over the western road from Mornstadinos. Only the breathing of the panther could be heard, and that breathing was tired.
Too, the panther was hungry. He had been running since he’d left the city, stopping only to rest for short periods, and to take a rabbit once, and later, a small ground monk. Hardly enough fare for a wildcat, much less such a large panther as was this one. Revenge fueled him, but revenge was not such a nourishing dish as warm flesh and hot blood.
As if some benevolent god had heard his wish, the panther suddenly caught the scent of living meat. There, just ahead, leaning against that tree. The cat slowed, and began his stalk, dropping his belly closer to the ground, moving more purposefully.
The meat slept. Good. That would make things easier. He could go for the throat and suffocate the prey. If the man tried to resist, the panther could rake open his victim’s belly with his hind claws, and disembowel him.
The cat moved with all the stealth he had, silently as a ghost, but something startled the meat. Some inner sense, perhaps, warned him of his impending doom. His eyes snapped open and he tried to scramble to his feet. He yelled. “No! Not you! Gods, forgive me, I will keep my vow, I will keep it, I swear!”
The cat who had been a man grinned, revealing his long fangs. Well, well. How appropriate this was! That his dinner should be this fat-and treacherous fool. Most appropriate, he thought as he gathered himself to spring.
In the night the bird that had called to its mate suddenly went silent.
Once again quiet ruled.
Quiet, save for the sound of a great hungry cat rending its prey.
With the trees of the Bloddolk Forest behind him, Conan felt much better. Here lay a vast plain, dotted here and there by buttes and rocky ridges, but mostly flat and bare. This was more to his liking; a man could see danger for a long way, could prepare himself to meet it properly. Nothing would skulk to within a few paces under the cover of god-cursed trees and underbrush.
Ahead of him Vitarius and Eldia rode side by side, talking quietly. Just behind them Kinna’s horse walked. Occasionally, the young woman would look over her shoulder and smile at Conan. He minded this not at all, for she was a woman of beauty and no small lusty temperament. The tension that had ridden Conan since his first encounter with the witch no longer troubled him in any way. He grinned, and hurried his horse a bit so that he rode closer to the others.
“Ho, Vitarius,” Conan said, “perhaps a stop for breakfast might be in order. Now that we are shut of that cursed wood.”
“We should consider ourselves covered with good fortune,” Vitarius said. “That we survived our passage unscathed.”
“Good fortune? That we were nearly spitted by a perverse plant and gobbled up by a giant red demon?”
“Our trip was mild compared to some. At least we survived to tell the tale.”
Conan nodded. The old mage had a point.
The four reined their mounts to a stop and unpacked dried meats and leathery strips of fruit, upon which they broke their fast. Between bites Conan mentioned to Vitarius how much he preferred this kind of terrain to that which they had just left.
Vitarius nodded, chewing thoughtfully on a brownish glob of some water-leached fruit. “Aye, under most circumstances I would agree. But this is Dodligia Plain, and not as safe as it appears at the moment. A half-day’s ride will bring us within sight of Castle Slott-it is another full day from there. And on the plains surrounding such a wicked place, there will be obstacles. I suspect the only reason we have not encountered wardens such as those you met upon entering Corinthia is because we travel toward Sovartus. He would hardly expect the flies to proceed directly to his web.”
The old man took another bite of fruit. “But rest assured, Sovartus is not one to leave his castle unguarded even if he does not expect us in particular. He has created a few enemies for himself: more than one man would see Sovartus swinging upon the gibbet. And the line to spit on his corpse would stretch to the horizon.”
“I would lead such a line,” Eldia said, looking grim for one so young.
“Aye,” Conan said, “and I would be near the front so as to collect my horse before all the spoils were gone!” He laughed.
Vitarius frowned. “Better you should save your jests until after we accomplish our mission. Sovartus does not amuse easily, from my recollections, and once we sight the castle, we must assume the very ground to have ears.”
Conan turned his head away from Vitarius and cupped his hands around his mouth. “See that you have my horse ready for my arrival!” he yelled. He turned back toward the trio watching him and smiled, his eyes full of blue fire.
No one smiled back at him.
As the sun passed midway over the land on its journey to night, the four came within sight of a far peak. An odd mountain, Conan thought, for it stood alone like a cone upon a table, without foothills or buttes near it. And the peak of the mountain was even more oddly shaped, jutting out so that it was somewhat wider above a pinched neck, like some distorted hourglass.
“Castle Slott,” Vitarius said.
Conan blinked in disbelief. “That mountain?”
“Much of it. The rock is shot through with caves, most of which interconnect. That flare you see at the top is not natural; it was made by men and by magic. From here it appears small; closer you can see that the tip of Castle Slott is ten times as large as the largest palace in Mornstadinos. And the top levels are linked to the tunnels below. Properly provisioned, a man could wander for years within the castle-mountain and never retrace his steps.
“From here on,” Vitarius continued, “we must be on our guard.”
Conan stared at the castle. His earlier enthusiasm quickly waned as he contemplated the awesome construction.
Djuvula supervised the loading of her Prince of the Lance onto her wagon. The wagon was constructed of a sturdy wooden frame, with a square tent of heavy canvas stretched over hoops of steamed and bent ironwood.
“Careful there, buffoon! If you drop that case, I shall shrivel your manhood!”
The workman’s eyes widened, and he moved more gingerly.
Djuvula turned away and went to finish packing her trunk of potions and powders.
As she carefully padded certain fragile glass balls full of brightly colored chemicals, once again the sorceress shook her head. She desired not this journey, but no help existed to save her from it. Djavul was dead; and, while there could be many reasons why, Djuvula knew in her own mind that her demon-brother must have met his fate at the hands of the barbarian, the old wizard, and the girl of Fire. Thus, revenge was added to her motives for wanting the man and girl. Revenge itself stirred her but little, though. Her relationship with Djavul had been based more on mutual self-satisfaction than on any true feelings; still, he had been kin. A point against her quarry.
With the expected failure of Lemparius as master swordsman of the bedchamber, it became more important to retrieve Conan for her Prince. And, of course, there stood the matter of the girl, possession of whom would buy her favor from Sovartus. Now that Djavul was dead, she would need a patron more than before. For all these reasons Djuvula knew she must follow the barbarian and the girl he protected.
She smiled. Fortunately, she would not have to ride the Corinthian road for long. She had in her possession a powerful spell, taught her by Djavul, which would allow the caster to travel the in-between lands. A few hours ride on that hellish road would be worth as many days travel on any highway in Corinthia.
True, such travel was not without risk even for a witch of considerable power; there were things that existed in the in-between lands that would bring terror to the eyes of a demon, much less a mortal woman. Unwary travelers under the gray sun could die a thousand deaths in a thousand horrible ways. Djuvula had made other journeys on that route, however. She was cautious; and, because of their head start, the risk must be taken if she were to catch her quarry.
She smiled at the thought and continued to pack her magical gear.
Near dusk Conan saw a new menace. One moment the plain to the Cimmerian’s left stood empty for as far as the eye could behold. The next moment a creature stood not twenty paces away. The thing was taller than Conan by a foot, and it looked like nothing so much as a very large dog standing upon its hind legs. The hind feet differed in shape from a dog’s or wolf’s, being more manlike, and the forepaws seemed more apish than canine, but otherwise it was doglike. The ears were pointed, the snout long and the muzzle filled with sharp teeth, and the nose was black, with twin nostrils.
Conan had no more time than to turn toward Vitarius and utter a curse, when the beast vanished. It was there, then it was not-dematerialized into the dusky air.
Vitarius turned. Conan quickly described the apparition.
The old mage nodded. “A demi-whelf.” he said. “A beast of Earth, and thus controlled by Sovartus-through Eldia’s sibling.”
“They are magic, to disappear so?”
“No. They live under the ground, in tunnels. The one you saw needed merely step into a concealed entrance to drop from sight.”
“Ah,” That made Conan feel better. Beasts, controlled by wizards or not, could be fought with steel.
“No doubt Sovartus shall shortly know we are here,” Vitarius said. “Best we continue moving; as like as not, the ground here is honeycombed with the whelves’ tunnels.”
The Cimmerian nodded. “What are they likely to do?”
Vitarius shrugged, his thin shoulders denting his robe slightly from within. “They must certainly contact their master somehow. A runner, perhaps, if not by some magical means. While demi-whelves have not the keenest eyesight, that one was close enough to observe us and give a description. I have no doubt that Sovartus is by this time aware of our presence.”
“What will he do, then?” Kinna asked.
The old man shook his head. “I know not. We proceed toward his lair. He can attack us now, or, perhaps, only await our arrival.”
“Then our advantage of surprise is gone,” Conan said.
“I had not counted greatly upon it,” Vitarius replied.
“Perhaps you should reveal your plan, then, magician.” Conan had not cared for the sight of the demi-whelf.
“When we arrive in the vicinity of the castle, I shall create a magical diversion of sufficient power and agitation to warrant Sovartus’s attention. While he is thus occupied, you need merely enter the castle, locate the children, and free them.”
“That is your plan?” Conan shook his head. “I am to scale a giant mountain, enter a castle, search perhaps thousands of rooms until I find our quarry, defeat the forces that might be mounted by a powerful wizard inside as guards, and return with three children?”
“That is my plan, yes.”
“Ah. And here I had thought there might be some difficulty in this undertaking. How foolish of me! It will be simple!”
“Sarcasm does not become you, Conan. I am open to better suggestions.”
The Cimmerian shook his head again. “Nay, your plan suits me well enough.” He touched the hilt of his sword. “I would rather rely on my blade than on complicated posturings in any event.”
“I shall go with you,” Kinna said.
Conan chuckled. “Nay. I said before I work better alone.”
Kinna bristled. “You would take me were I a man!”
“I would not take you were you a tame dragon trained to belch fire at my command. I work best alone; I have always done so. And I am most glad that you are a woman, Kinna. I would have you be nothing else.”
Conan could see the anger on her face war with another emotion. After a moment she smiled. “Yes. I, too, am glad to be a woman, Conan.”
The in-between lands were never peaceful, at least during those times when Djuvula had traveled them. In two directions, the south and east, storms raged, spewing forth lightning and thunder; where she was the atmosphere seemed charged with some elemental force, so that the air swam with countless small motes, all dancing madly. The in-between lands twisted straight lines into curves and waves, made corners less than square, and surrounded every object with a fuzz of its own light-a total, encompassing delusion.