Conan The Fearless (8 page)

“Eldia is one corner of the Square,” Vitarius said. “She is the Child of Fire, flameweaver and Mistress of its beasts, the salamanders. Her sister, Atena, is the Child of Water, and through her the undines serve; her brothers are Luft, Child of Air and the wind-devils, and Jord, Child of Earth, Master of the demi-whelves and trolls. I did not make it so, but I speak it as it is.”

Something had been gnawing ratlike at Conan’s mind, something Vitarius had said earlier. The young man voiced it. “You spoke of another student, the natural son of Hogistum. Who is he? What has happened to him?”

Vitarius nodded as if expecting the question. “We speak of one you have had contact with, albeit indirectly. He owes you a horse.”

“Sovartus?”

“Aye. He poisoned his own father and has spent the years since tracing and recovering the children Hogistum so carefully hid. He now has them all save Eldia.”

“Hogistum was less than careful, it would seem.” Conan toyed with his own cup of wine. “He is dead and his son’s goal nearly accomplished.”

“Aye. I managed to thwart him by taking Eldia from her captors before she could be tendered to him. I was too late for the others. Through them, he now influences three of the Square’s Four Corners: Earth, Air, and Water. If he should complete the Square, he would have at his bidding a beast greater than the sum of the parts, a synergistic force Hogistum called the Thing of Power. This would be such a monstrous happening that even the gods would turn their faces away from it.”

Conan shifted upon the bench, suddenly uncomfortable. Talk of magic always made him feel thus; such things as this men should leave alone.

Kinna leaned across the table, one more-than-ample breast brushing against the back of Conan’s hand as she moved. “What are your intentions, then, Vitarius?”

The old magician sighed again. “I must protect Eldia, keeping her from Sovartus’s clutches; more, I must somehow find a way to free the three children he holds.”

“Can you do it?” Eldia said quietly. “Can you save my brothers and sister from my-my … half-brother?”

Vitarius shook his head. “I do not know. He is of the Black, and so wields powers I cannot; too, he commands the forces of Three Corners and I only One. I fear he is stronger than I. Sovartus, so it is said, even dares to practice base necromancy in his sorcery, calling upon the legions of the dead for certain spells. All I can do is try. I can do no more, and I will do no less.”

Kinna leaned back and nodded. “Very well. I shall help you in any way I can. As long as Sovartus lives, Eldia is endangered. We must destroy him.” Kinna looked at Conan. “What about you?”

Conan crossed his thick arms upon his chest and stared at the woman. She was beautiful, but he wished no part of this.

“I travel to Nemedia,” he said. “And I paused only long enough to earn an easier passage. I have been misled. I am not fond of liars, especially those who risk my neck without warning me, and I have less liking for practitioners of magic. I wish you well in your undertaking, but I am no longer a part of it.”

Kinna glared at Conan, but Eldia only nodded, as did Vitarius. The mage said, “I cannot blame you, Conan, You have behaved bravely and we returned falsehood for it. We thank you for your help and wish you well in your journey.”

Conan nodded and started to rise.

“But stay a moment,” Vitarius said. “We owe you something for your trouble. There is the silver for this day’s work, and a few coins besides, well-earned. And since I have held two rooms for this evening’s rest, you are welcome to one of them, in further gratitude.”

Conan took the coins, transferring them to his own pouch. “Aye, I’ll use the room this night, deservedly.”

The young Cimmerian turned and walked toward the doorway leading to the stairs and the lodging above the inn. The day had been long and he was tired.

The room was somewhat better appointed than the last in which Conan had slept, but not by much. A pallet stuffed with straw lay upon a much-worn and ratty carpet; a shuttered window could be opened out so that the room’s occupants could behold the maze of streets three flights below. A nub of a taper burned in one corner of the room, sending the remains of smoky tallow toward the dark ceiling, but little light into the rest of the darkness. At least there were no rats buried within his bed, Conan noted. He pinched the candle wick and extinguished the small flame, then sprawled upon the pallet, his sword nearby. Sleep fell upon him like a cloak.

Like a cloak jerked away, sleep left the prone form of Conan a scant two hours later. The blue eyes flashed out a gaze that swept the dark room, but there was nothing to be seen, for the blackness was too thick even for the Cimmerian’s sharp vision. He held his breath so that his hearing would work yet better, but the only sound was that of a small wind playing around the edges of the shuttered window and the creaks of the aging wood of the inn. And his own heartbeat sounded in his ears. No danger was apparent, yet Conan trusted his instincts too well to ignore his wakefulness at this hour. He reached for his sword, feeling better once the stained leather handle was in his grasp.

Perhaps it was only the wind after all, he thought as he lay there. When nothing else moved for a long time, Conan again slept, his hand still locked upon the hilt of his sword.

The darkness in Castle Slott was complete save for a musty yellow glow cast in a single room by a single lamp. Revealed in the fitful light stood Sovartus, his thin-fingered hands digging cruelly into the shoulders of one of three children chained to the damp and moldy wall. Presently, a faint glow began to surround the bodies of the magician and his captive. At first the glow merely shimmered dimly; after a short while, however, the gleam of pale yellow light began to rival that of the lamp on the wall. In a few moments the boy and magician produced a source of illumination too bright to gaze upon without squinting. As Sovartus felt the boy’s energies suffuse him, the magician laughed. Yes!

Wrapped in the folds of darkness outside of the Milk of Wolves Inn, Djuvula the Witch felt the wind tug at the edges of her black silk veil, stirring the cloth gently. She had determined that the child she sought was ensconced within, along with him of the White Square who was her protector. All it had cost her was money; a few silver coins spread around could oft work more miracles among men than could magic. Aside from the girl, Djuvula also sought some sign of the barbarian who had injured her demon-brother. Surely such a one must be a man with a powerful spirit. And a powerful heart.

The rising wind also tangled itself about the short form of Loganaro, hiding in the lee of an outhouse close to the inn in which Conan the Cimmerian slept. Loganaro impatiently awaited the arrival of the six cutthroats he had hired, paid for with gold from Senator Lemparius’s bountiful purse. Surely the big youth could be taken by six men, no matter that some of them might be lost in the process. Such had been Lemparius’s decision when Loganaro had reported that Conan had seemed upon the verge of departing the company of the old man, girl, and newly arrived woman. It had been hastily arranged; Loganaro would have preferred a longer time to select his crew, but one worked with what one was given. His major worry concerned not the taking of Conan, but the displeasure of Djuvula when she learned of his switch in allegiance, no matter he had little choice in the matter. This above all played upon his fears, and he wondered where Djuvula might be at the moment. And where those dimwitted cutthroats dallied.

On a dark street overshadowed by cluttered buildings and unkissed by the light of moon or man, a tawny shape walked. Dogs barked fearfully at the passage of the shape, perhaps startled by the scent of what was far too huge to be any street cat, though cat it surely was. Within the mind of the werepanther a laugh was formed, but when it erupted from between sharp white fangs, the laugh was something else entirely. The dogs of Mornstadinos went silent at the sound, as if they were afraid to draw the attention of the thing by further outcry.

The dogs need not have worried; the cat-which-was-also-a-man stalked a different prey than dogs: He had grown fond of the taste of a two-legged animal. The city was full of such. Six of those particular animals passed the cat in the darkness, blind to his presence. The werepanther allowed these six to move by unmolested, for beneath the feline brain the mind of the man knew they were about on his business. And such business would bring him a different kind of pleasure than eating.

The normally peaceful slumber of Conan of Cimmeria was disturbed this night, and the powerful form of the barbarian turned restlessly upon the pallet of straw upon which he lay. He came to wakefulness once again, but once more could identify no threat to him. A dream. he thought, must have infiltrated his sleep. As he fell back asleep the second time that night, only the sound of the night wind came to his ears. Outside, it sounded as if a storm were rising.

The wind howled through the streets of Mornstadinos, searching out every hollow that could announce its passage. Gusts of damp air rattled loose objects and sent trash flying before it. The rain, when it came, exploded upon the cobblestones in fat drops, immediately drenching anything or anyone unprotected from the storm. Lightning turned the night into day in a series of instants; thunder followed in the darkness, booming like the angry grumbles of some irritated god. The storm, undetected by the bone aches of the weather-sayers, unleashed its torrents upon the city with a rare tropical fury usually unknown to the region.

“Mitra curse this rain!” said one of the cutthroats standing in the scant shelter of a roof overhang across the street from the Milk of Wolves Inn. Three or four of his companions echoed his comment before Loganaro silenced them with a withering glare.

“Are you cakes of spice who will dissolve under a little rain?” Loganaro said.

“Nay,” the cutthroat answered, “but this be no small shower, pursemaster. The rats’ll be drowning this night.”

“Concern yourself not with rats,” Loganaro said. “You are not paid to worry over them, but to fetch me the man who lies sleeping yonder.” Loganaro pointed toward the inn.

The cutthroat, a swarthy man of Zamorian ancestry with a patch of leather covering one sightless eye, nodded. “Aye, that be true,” Patch said. “But my mates and me would have words wi’ ye regarding our … arrangement.” The man spoke in a heavy foreign accent laced with a polyglot patois.

Loganaro regarded the man. “Words? What words?”

“There be a story that this ‘un you wants be the same man who played sword against the red monster some seen in the square during the winemaker’s party.”

“And what if he is? Do the six of you fear one man?”

“Nay, man, not fear; respect it be. They say this ‘un be devil quick and strong as a bear to boot. If these things be true, my mates and me figures it be likely this ‘un won’t go easy. So maybe there ought to be a bit more grease.”

Loganaro ground his teeth together. “How much more?”

Patch grinned, showing his own crooked yellow teeth. “Ah, a gold piece each would sit well.”

“No doubt it would. We have an agreement for twelve gold solons for the job.”

“That be before. Now we figure eighteen.”

“Impossible. I might manage another two silver pieces each.”

Patch shrugged. “The rain be cold; just as well we’re shut of it.” Patch started to turn away.

“Two gold coins more,” Loganaro said, angry with the man.

“Five,” Patch returned.

Loganaro thought of the man he had seen slain in the dungeon under the Senate, and swallowed. A hard gust of wind blew rain against his back; cold water trickled down under his collar and along his neck. He thought about trying to bargain further, hating to lose more of his money to this thug, but decided against it. All the gold in Corinthia would be worthless were he not around to gloat over it. He took a deep breath. “Done. Five solons more. When you deliver the barbarian.”

Patch showed his crooked teeth again. “Aye.”

The fury of the storm seemed to wane for a moment. Loganaro waved toward the inn. “Do it, then. Now.”

The six men darted from under the overhang and ran toward the inn, splashing through puddles already as big as small ponds.

Djuvula hurried toward her manse, cursing the rain. She hated to leave the surveillance she had undertaken upon the inn, but she could not abide the rain. There was no chance the old man and girl would be going anywhere in this night, in any event. She could return on the morrow.

The panther snarled, but the sound was lost in a giant’s drumbeat of thunder. His fur was rain-matted, and the cat was not happy. Such weather kept his prey indoors and well-shuttered against intrusion. Those unable to afford inns or houses were more difficult to locate, since the torrential rain washed much of their scent from the air. Prowling under the downpour was a muddy business and less than enjoyable.

The panther turned away from his hunt and scurried toward one of many places especially prepared for his night roamings. This one was no more than a shed for storage of wool, but it offered shelter and a hidden cache of clothing suitable for a senator wishing to be incognito.

In the privacy of the shed, that which was a cat growled as it began to stretch joints and ligaments unnaturally, altering itself from a beast that walked on four legs to one of those who, moments earlier, had been its prey.

Conan had no fear of storms, but once again he lay awake, gripping his sword tightly. This time a sound in the corridor outside his room was apparent even over the tempest raging outside the inn. A soft footstep upon a loose board.

The barbarian came lightly to his feet and moved quickly toward the door. He threw the simple latch up, jerked the door open, and, in a single bound, leaped into the hall, sword held ready to strike.

Conan found himself facing a single figure wrapped in a thin blanket. Kinna.

Conan lowered the sword, staring at the young woman. The blanket she wore covered much of her, but allowed most of her long legs freedom in the night air. Most shapely legs, Conan saw, with an underlying muscle he found instantly attractive.