“How in the name of Erlik and Drood did you escape a Khawarizmi slave caravan, on the open desert… chained?”
“Drood is a god I am unfamiliar with,” Conan said, and his seeming calm was maddening to his companion.
“A most ancient god still worshiped in Iranistan,” Khassek said shortly.
“I will admit it,” Conan said. “I did not escape. I mentioned the five soldiers of Samara I had met previously. We met them again; they were on their way back. I shouted and shouted, and Captain Arsil of Samara got us freed. Because I am too kind for my own good, I caused Isparana to be freed, too.” He smiled. “The last I saw of her, she was headed south, being ‘escorted’ to Zamboula by Arsil and his men— who knew nothing of our real purpose, Isparana’s and mine—whilst I rode north with her camels and horses.”
Khassek laughed aloud. “And so she took the false Eye back to Akter Khan, who doubtless wears it even now, believing it is his own sorcery-wrought protection! For it is peculiarly and particularly attuned only to him, Conan, by sorcery.”
Conan shook his head. “No,” he said, and Khassek stared. There was
more
? “To ascertain that the one I brought him was indeed the real one, Hisarr wrought a spell that caused the copy to melt into formless slag.
I regret that. Even for Isparana, I would not wish such pain or, if she survived it, such a burn-scar between her breasts. They were good ones.”
Like his fellow Iranistani before him, from whom Conan had picked up the habit, Khassek responded to that disappointment by uttering a single word: “Damn!”
Conan glanced at him, and for once those volcanic blue eyes were almost placid. “Aye,” he said.
They rode on, and they were entering the desert. Even the sun seemed hotter. Scraggly plants erupted here and there from yellow-white soil, tenaciously clinging to earth and life. Sun and sky brightened, seemingly reflecting the increasing paleness of the terrain beneath their horse’s hooves.
“Conan,” Khassek said. “You… wouldn’t also happen to know about the destruction of a certain mighty tower of one Yara, priest of Arenjun, would you?”
Though a little shiver took him at memory of that sorcerous encounter of but a quarter-year ago, Conan chuckled. “Perhaps Yara angered the god he served and his gemmy tower was struck by a lightning bolt, Khassek.”
“Perhaps. And mayhap I am in the company of a truly great thief—and bane of wizards!”
Conan only chuckled, but as they rode on, he wondered. Bane of wizards? It was true that he had several interesting experiences with several wizards, and products of wizardry… and survived, while they did not. He pondered that, while they rode southward into the shining sand.
Far, far south of Conan and the Iranistani, on that same desert and indeed but a few days north of Zamboula, four soldiers of Samara awoke to find that one of their number was missing. So was the “guest” they had been escorting. The Samaratan captain pounded fist into palm.
“Blast and drought! I’d have staked my sword arm on Sarid! Tarim’s beard—that damned witch…”
“Aye, Captain,” one of his men said. “Sarid was eyeing her from the first, when we took her and the Cimmerian from the Khawarizmi coffle. In truth Sarid appointed himself her guard. None of us thought to note them or listen to the words they exchanged while we rode, and camped, and rode again.”
“And now the slut has persuaded him to ride off with her! Sarid! He has deserted us… deserted duty and king… for that treacherous Zamboulan woman! Tarim damn the day we let that Cimmerian foist her on us!”
“Peradventure she will die of that burn…”
“Which we salved and bandaged for her with such tender care! Hmp! No such luck, Salik. Her kind lives forever.”
“Captain Arsil… she did continue to swear that she was an agent of the Khan of Zamboula. And that the beasts and supplies the Cimmerian took were hers. Too, she never left off claiming that he had an amulet that belongs to her khan. And the one she had…” the Samaratan soldier broke off with a quaver in his voice. He made a ward-sign and muttered the name of a god.
Captain Arsil’s head jerked. “And the Cimm— Conan said otherwise. Now I wonder… have she and Sarid ridden north, Kambur?”
“It appears so,” the third soldier said.
“So. She turns her back on Zamboula, and with us nearly there. To try to track down Conan the Cimmerian, no doubt! Mayhap that rogue with the weird eyes lied to us, at that. I admit I liked the man… all for an amulet, eh? Kambur, I’d hazard that poor foolish Sarid will never see the new moon. That Cimmerian is big enough to eat him up. Ah, poor lad! By Tarim, I hope Conan cuts that accursed witch into dog food!”
“Arsil… Captain… shall we… follow them?”
“No! By Tarim, no! I have no mind to spend the rest of my life on this desert, or keep you here. We have the stolen goods we were sent after… most of them… and I do not look forward to telling that girl of Sarid’s what happened to him.” Captain Arsil groaned. “Or his mother…
or
the Commander!”
“Uh… mayhap they were all better off—and we too—did we claim that Sarid was slain. Heroically. Then…”
“And have him somehow turn up in Samara next day or next month or next year? Oh no, Kambur, and you will never make sergeant with that kind of muddy thinking. No! And—Kambur.” Arsil’s good-looking dark face took on an expression of thoughtfulness. “Best we make absolutely no mention of either Conan of Cimmeria or the accursed Isparana whilst we are passing through Zamboulan territory.”
Kambur, an Iranistani in the employ of Samara, nodded. Arsil was right, thinking wisely—though Kambur would bet his boots that big straight-nosed man with the sky-colored eyes had tricked them all. Kambur would not miss Sarid all that much… though he was sorry that Isparana was gone. He had been happy to leave her in Sarid’s care, knowing that Sarid had a girl at home, and their betrothal announced and registered. Kambur had cherished a few notions and hopes himself, about the Zamboulan witch they had found with Conan in the Khawarizmi slave caravan.
So Arsil fears for Sarid, does he
? Kambur gave his helmeted head a jerk. Sarid be damned! Let that big barbarian look out! Isparana was woman enough, temptress enough, to bring even him to his knees! And how she hated the Cimmerian!
The paraphernalia cluttering the spacious room ranged from the commonplace to strange, through exotic to weird and truly horrid. The young mage in the room was strange only in that he was young. He was scrying, and he smiled as he studied his glass. His brown cap was of a strange tall design; otherwise he wore a plain white tunic, long, over tan leggings. A pendant swung on his chest with his movements. The pendant was a large wheel bordered with pearls; in its center flashed a many-faceted ruby surrounded by twelve sunny topazes forming a six-pointed star. The pendant was a gift of his khan. So was one of the two rings he wore.
Smiling without showing his teeth or softening his eyes, he turned from his scrying glass. On shoes of soft red felt he crossed the chamber to a tall paneled door. He thumped on it twice with a single knuckle, and returned, whistling, to his glass.
Within minutes the door was opened and another man appeared. He was balding, and though hair ran down his cheeks and jawline on both sides, it was shaved down the center to bare his cleft chin. A design of tangled vines, wrought in scarlet stitchery, decorated his dark brown robe at hem, cuffs and neck. A silver chain rustled on his breast and he too was shod in red felt. His wrist was encircled by a bracelet of copper.
Neither he nor the mage spoke. While he held the door, the mage paced past without glancing at him from those cold, hard brown stones of eyes.
The youthful wizard entered a sprawling, lofty hall under a sky-painted ceiling supported by columns carved to represent acacia trees. The hall was dominated by the dais at its rear wall; the dais by the great fruitwood chair there, etched with silver. The man seated in the chair was neither handsome nor ugly, neither fat nor thin, though he had a paunch. His long yellow robe was topped by one of figured blue silk obviously imported at expense from far Khitai. It was interestingly cut and slashed to display the saffron-hued garment beneath.
As he approached the throne, the young mage made a tight gesture.
The enthroned man responded instantly to the signal: “Leave us, Hafar.”
Leaving open the door to the chamber of the mage, the older man crossed, brown robe whispering, the sprawling throneroom. He passed through a small door in the wall opposite, and closed it behind him.
The enthroned man gazed with dark, dark eyes at the mage.
“My lord Khan, the Eye of Erlik is once again on its way south from Arenjun.”
“What? Good!”
“I escry that it is in the possession of an Iranistani and that same one who has it of Hisarr Zul… and Isparana.”
Akter Khan’s face lost a bit of ruddiness. “An Iranistani! Erlik protect! Zafra:
Which of them has the Eye
?”
The wizard stood before the throne now, at the base of the dais whose steps were carpeted in blue the color of the khan’s over-robe or surcoat. His gaze slewed to the wall behind and to the left of the throne. A sword hung there, sheathed, alone on the wall. Gems flashed on the sword’s hilt. The sheath was supported by two braces that were of gold, or gilded. The mage’s cold snake’s eyes met his khan’s gaze.
“Alas my lord, my powers are not unlimited. The two travel close together and I can be certain only that the amulet travels with them. Only were they to separate would I know which bears the Eye.”
“You are well kept, Zafra,” Akter Khan said. “Your chamber adjoins the very throneroom. At your signal I emptied this room and at your gesture I dismissed my vizir! You want for nothing here. I want more information.”
Zafra felt it wise to bow—however briefly and shallowly. “No man in the world could tell you so much as I already have, lord Khan of Zamboula. This I swear by my beard and my power! The Eye of Erlik gives off an aura, because it is an object created in sorcery. Were it among three persons, though, or even ten, not even the most adept of those famed sorcerers of demon-shadowed Stygia could say which of them held it, until he parted from the others. I have the amulet located, lord Khan. I can keep watch as it approaches. I shall. It is far from us, now. Whichever of those two men has it, we can take it easily once they are near enough. Meanwhile Akter Khan:
they
approach
us
, and we need take no action. I shall watch.”
“Unless they should swerve to eastward, to avoid Zamboula on their way to Iranistan!”
“I shall maintain watch, my lord. I believe that they are south of the Road of Kings. Yet should they turn eastward, toward the sea, there is no way we can get men there before them.”
Akter Khan’s fingers drummed the silver-threaded arm of his chair of state; his nails clicked. “Watch those two, Zafra, and report to me thrice daily, no less. Sooner, if they change direction or you ascertain which of them carries the Eye.”
“Yes, Khan of Zamboula. Of course. At least we now know that the amulet is again wending its way toward us.”
“Or toward Iranistan. That must not happen!”
“They are weeks away, my lord Akter. We will know. My lord need not worry. I will keep you apprised.”
“Ummm. And still we know naught of Karamek and Isparana! Plague take—Hafar!
Hafar!
Best I make another contribution to the temples of Erlik and of Yog, for surely some god is angry with me and I cannot believe it is Hanuman! Hafar!”
When Hafar entered Zafra the mage was departing, and the Khan of Zamboula had twisted about to stare at the sword on the wall. He did so several times daily, and Hafar wondered at its meaning for his lord, and at Zafra’s influence.
Zafra, meanwhile, closed his door behind him and leaned against the panels to stare at the woman who waited. Even as he secured the door, she smiled and let her single garment drop from her in an amethystine puddle at her feet.
“Chia,” he breathed. “You should
not
come here. Must I take to locking the corridor door?”
She smiled lazily and flaunted a hip. On it lay a delicate gold chain, which was slung across the lower curve of her deep-naveled belly. It was all she wore now save for her rings, and it, like Zafra’s pendant, was a gift of her lord the khan.
“But who can stay away?” she asked softly. “Come, and make your Tigress purr.”
The man most favored by the Khan of Zamboula went to the woman most favored by that same khan.
“Easy, Ironhead; we are out now, boys. Even as you said, Conan! All the way through that haunted pass and no sign of ghost or sand-lich. I apologize for doubting. Why man, you are a hero! This is a full day and more off the journey from Zamboula up into Zamora!”
Conan nodded, rocking with the movements of his horse. He felt heroic, conveniently forgetting that sheer rashness and illogical stubbornness had sent him riding through that pass of death two months before. He had put out of mind the fact that only luck or some other whimsical god had kept him from being merely another victim of the ghost that had so long haunted the gorge slicing through the Dragon Hills.
“First,” he said, “travelers will have to be assured that the pass is safe. I believe it best that we just keep the knowledge to ourselves, Khassek. Zamboulans might ask too many questions.”
Riding just ahead and left of him, the Iranistani nodded. “I understand. The amulet. I would feel much more comforted if you showed it me, Conan.”
Conan’s throat spat up a short laugh that reminded the other man of a lion’s cough. “And I’d feel more comfortable if I could believe that you are content for both of us to fetch it to your… employer, Khass! You saw me go off into the sands to dig it up. We have it.”
“Conan, I like you. You are a fighter, and you have some sense, and I think you are an honest lad. In—”
“If I had more sense I’d doubtless be less honest,” Conan said, his face darkening at the word “lad.”